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Arthur Burdett Frost. 


American Tract Society, 

ISO NASSAU ST.. NEW YORK. 

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COPYRIGHT, 1877, 

BY AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY. 


Table of Contents. 

CHAPTER I. 

A Talk of the Future - page 5 

CHAPTER II. 

Aunt Ellen - - - 18 

CHAPTER III. 

A Desecrated Sabbath 30 

CHAPTER IV. 

Resolution and Temptation — - 43 

CHAPTER V. 

Miss Westbrooke’s Standard 56 

CHAPTER VI. 

Temptation Resisted 70 

CHAPTER VII. . 

The Sorrows of a Nursery 82 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Home Again - 95 

CHAPTER IX. 

For Etta’s Sake no 

CHAPTER X. 

The New Home 123 


4 


TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Divided Duty- - 135 

CHAPTER XII. 

Etta at Fairhaven - - 1 A 9 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Struggle and a Victory - - — 160 

CHAPTER XIV. 

New Prospects for Harry 176 

CHAPTER XV. 

More Changes - 1S7 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Young Clerk’s Trials - 199 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Brighter Days 214 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A Birthday at Fairhaven 226 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The Picnic 7 240 

CHAPTER XX. 

The Return to Brooklyn 253 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Left in Charge 262 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Quite a, Man 280 


Almost a Man. 


CHAPTER I. 

A TALK OF THE FUTURE. 

“ I hope you will be a comfort to your father. 
You are almost a man !” 

Harry Westbrooke looked up as the gentle 
voice fell upon his ears, wondering a little at the 
words, and still more at the earnest tone. 

A comfort to his father ! Because, and his eyes 
filled with tears at this thought, his mother was dead. 

Harry could scarcely realize that his father 
could be comforted by any act of love offered by a 
son. To him, the words father and mother bore 
none of the sweet and sacred associations that 
ought to cling to them in the hearts of all children. 
His mother, a woman of fashion, had given Har- 
ry to the care of nurses, governesses, and teachers, 
rarely spending more than a few minutes in the 
nursery from which four little ones had been carried 


6 


ALMOST A MAN. 


to Greenwood, till only Harry a lad of seventeen 
and Etta a winsome little maiden of four years, 
remained to call Mrs. Westbrooke mother. 

Harry’s memories of her were not the memo- 
ries of morning or evening prayer learned from her 
lips, of wise counsel and of loving guidance. He 
thought of her in rich beautiful dresses, walking 
with him in crowded promenades, or driving with 
him seated beside her, also handsomely dressed. 
He remembered her in evening dress, brushing 
his cheek in a careless good-night kiss as she left 
for ball or opera. She had taken a severe cold at 
her last ball, which had resulted in pneumonia, 
and Harry shuddered as he recalled the touch of 
her cold lips as she lay beautiful and pale in her 
coffin. 

His father, who had seldom denied him any 
extravagant wish of his boyish heart, who kept him 
supplied with money, and gave him a caress when 
they met, was to Harry only an indulgent guardi- 
an, who sometimes required a little coaxing for an 
especial favor. But it was a new and startling 
thought that there could ever exist that close com- 
panionship implied by the word comfort. 

“I don’t know, Aunt Ellen,” the lad said at 
last, slowly, “how I could comfort papa” 


A TALK OF THE FUTURE. 


7 


Miss Westbrooke sighed, softly stroking her 
nephew’s brown curls. In the three short weeks 
during which she had been an inmate of her broth- 
er’s splendid house, she had seen how little home 
love there was in the family ; but she knew too 
that her brother had dearly loved his wife, had been 
proud of her beauty and accomplishments, and 
sorrowed deeply for her loss, seeing none of a 
Christian’s comfort in his bereavement. 

“I have been here so little, Harry,” she said, 
“ that I could not tell you as well as you will know 
yourself what will best please your father. But 
he will naturally look to his children now for com- 
panionship and comfort.” 

She passed on as she spoke, leaving Harry to 
think over her words. What would please his 
father ? 

The boy asked himself the question very 
seriously. Touched by the solemnity of the death 
scenes just over, in his mother’s funeral, his natur- 
ally affectionate disposition craved some new out- 
let, and his aunt’s words suggested one. He would 
like to please the grave sad man who was seated 
alone in the library, waiting the end of the long 
day. But how could he do so ? 

He had told him of winning the Latin prize ; 


8 


ALMOST A MAN. 


of being complimented for his uniformly gentle- 
manly conduct at the Academy where he was pre- 
paring for college ; of his success in conquering the 
obstinacy of the horse that was his last birthday 
gift. All these things had seemed to please his 
father at the time he heard them, but there was 
nothing new to add to the list. For four dreary days, 
between his mother’s death and her funeral, he had 
been confined to the house, weeping often, and yet 
without any of the sense of bitter loss that a loving, 
tender mother would have left in the heart of her 
only son. Something very beautiful and bright 
was gone from the house, that was all. 

Very slowly Harry went to the library, feeling 
that it was a duty suggested by his aunt’s words, 
but without any hope of really giving comfort to 
his father. To his surprise, Mr. Westbrooke 
looked up eagerly at his entrance, and held out his 
hand. “ My son,” he said tenderly, and drew him 
close beside him. 

After a moment of silence he began to talk of 
his dead wife, evidently thankful to pour out his 
love and sorrow to a sympathizing heart ; and 
Harry, listening respectfully and sorrowfully, felt 
that he was obeying his aunt’s desire, and comfort- 
ing his father. 


A TALK OF THE FUTURE. 


9 


“She was proud of her boy,” the father said, 
.holding the lad’s hand fast in a loving clasp ; “ she 
looked forward to your coming of age, Harry, to 
your being at some future day my partner in busi- 
ness ! Well ! well ! It seems but yesterday you were 
a baby, and now you are seventeen, almost a man !” 

Here was a new duty opened to Harry with the 
same words his aunt had used. It was not a pros- 
pect he liked. A partnership in his father’s busi- 
ness meant probably that he would have to pass 
his time in a dull countinghouse, reading and 
answering business letters, attending to customers 
and clerks, a dry routine, even worse than the 
drudgery of school. For there were vacations and 
resting hours in school-life, but Harry could not 
remember that his father ever rested or took a 
vacation. 

If his mother took him with Etta and the ser- 
vants to a watering place for the summer, Mr. 
Westbrooke remained in the city, working at the 
countinghouse in the hot days as well as the cold 
ones. In the evening, while Harry studied or had 
young friends to entertain, or while Mrs. West- 
brooke was at some gay party, Mr. Westbrooke 
was usually in the library, occupied with letters or 
papers, or receiving business calls. 


10 


ALMOST A MAN. 


Harry’s visions of a future manhood had been 
very different from this prospect of absorption in 
business. He had looked forward to greater free- 
dom after the restraints of school and college were 
over ; to the possession of fast horses, more manly 
attire, perhaps the tour of Europe to complete his 
gentlemanly education. After a childhood and 
boyhood of utterly selfish gratification, he was but 
ill prepared for duty that would require thought for 
another, even if that other was an indulgent parent. 

He listened, respectfully indeed, but with a 
very rebellious heart, while his father talked for 
some time of that future of business life that had 
been one of his own cherished hopes for years, but 
which was entirely a new idea to his son’s mind. 

“ But am I not to go to college, sir ?” he asked 
at length. 

“ Oh, yes, and then you had better have a year’s 
tuition in a commercial college, unless indeed I 
decide to put you under old Poulson, who has been 
my own head clerk for twenty-five years. He can 
well instruct you. I am not a young man, Harry, 
■nearing seventy, my son, and I look forward to 
your introduction to the business to put new life 
and enterprise into it.” 

“ I am afraid, sir, I shall prove but a poor busi- 


A TALK OF THE FUTURE. 1 1 

ness man. I have no taste for accounts or the dull 
routine of trade.” 

“You will find your interest will grow with 
your success. I was not the son of a rich man, 
taken as partner into a business already in a flour- 
ishing condition. I started with the lowest drudg- 
ery of the warehouse, making the fires, sweeping 
the floors, before I was sixteen. But I worked 
my way from one position to another, trying to 
do my work faithfully, carefully saving a portion 
of every dollar I earned, till I stood at the head 
of the very firm where I commenced my career. 
My employers, my senior partners have died or 
retired, till I am alone, keeping for my son a 
partnership which many have sought ! It has been 
my dream since you were a babe in long white 
frocks, Harry. Your mother wanted you to be a 
gentleman, with accomplishments and a first-rate 
education, so we will not change your school or 
habits, but when you graduate and are of age, I 
hope to see you begin a successful business career, 
and double the fortune your father has made.” 

That sounded pleasant. Knowing that Mr. 
Westbrooke had made a sufficient fortune to live 
in luxury for many years, Harry liked the sound of 
those last words. Double his father’s fortune ! 


12 


ALMOST A MAN. 


That was worth some sacrifice surely, worth giving 
years of life to dull routine and ceaseless work. 
And after all, he would enter into business life a 
gentleman, junior partner in the firm, above the 
clerks and salesmen, not an office-boy, under the 
orders of even the porters. Harry’s long face 
brightened a little. “ I suppose there will be a 
great deal to learn, sir,” he said. 

“ Yes, a great deal. But we will make it easy 
for you, Harry. I never want to see you slaving 
as your father slaved for years. Your path will 
be made smoother for you, though you must re- 
member there is no great success without industry 
and perseverance, even if you need not practise 
the close economy that gave me my first capital. 
I was a poor boy and I am a rich man, and I owe 
it to the favor of no man, but to my own hard 
work, strict honesty and perseverance. I hope to 
to see you succeed with the same qualities.” 

Yet Harry had been educated in self-indulgence, 
ease, and extravagance ; had been petted at school 
for his intelligence and love of books, foolishly flat- 
tered at home for his handsome face and gentle- 
manly address ; had servants to save him from lift- 
ing a finger to help himself, and owed his present 
freedom from positive vice solely to a fastidious 


A TALK OF THE FUTURE. 


13 


repugnance to anything low or vulgar, not to any 
principle, nor to any higher teaching than that of 
expediency or regard to appearances. 

He left the library after some further conversa- 
tion on the same topic, and went to his own room. 
The next day he would resume his interrupted 
studies, and he busied himself with his books and 
papers, studying closely until dinner-time as he 
had done every day, hoping to retain the position 
in his classes that he had won by close applica- 
tion to books he loved. 

Mental indolence was no temptation to Harry 
Westbrooke. He loved to trace out intricate prob- 
lems, to conquer difficulties of study, and to hold 
up his head proudly in the schools where he was 
a student. Inclined to arrogance, he looked down 
upon boys intellectually his inferiors, as he looked 
down upon those who wore shabby clothes and 
soiled their hands by menial work. 

To thank God for his active intellect, to humbly 
own his mental powers as a gift from his Creator, 
was a lesson Harry Westbrooke had never learned. 
In his proud estimation, his mind was his own 
possession, his progress the result of his own appli- 
cation ; and he relied solely upon his perseverance 
and study to keep the head of his classes, and out- 


14 


ALMOST A MAN. 


strip his rivals in the schools. What was difficult, 
he was proud of conquering; what was easy, he 
was rather contemptuous of knowing. 

“ I think,” was his thought as the dinner-bell, 
silent for four days, summoned him from a long 
Latin composition, “I think I have gained rather 
than lost since I left school. It has been so very 
quiet in the house, that I could study famously, and 
I am pretty sure Mr. Huber will not count my 
absence against me, for such a reason as kept me 
at home. Poor mamma!” and he sighed as the 
train of thought brought back the sorrow to his 
mind; “poor mamma! she was very proud of my 
Latin prize. She made father buy my watch the 
very next day ” 

It was strange, but entirely true, that the lad’s 
only sweet memories of his mother were associated 
with costly presents, or some fond proud praise of 
his acquirements to friends. Mrs. Westbrooke had 
not left that most precious of all maternal legacies, 
tender motherly kisses, gentle Christian influence 
and teaching, caresses straight from a heart full of 
mother love. Her children loved her only as a far- 
off beautiful vision, attired in dresses too costly for 
baby fingers to touch, sitting in rooms far too 
expensively furnished for children’s plays, busied 


A TALK OF THE FUTURE. 15 

with gayeties from which little folks were strictly 
banished. 

Harry, as he came out from the nursery to 
more advanced boyish pursuits and studies, had 
sometimes been admitted to his mother’s sitting- 
room, when he was carefully dressed, and would 
behave with strict propriety, and was usually very 
glad to escape from the restraint, to his games and 
young companions. 

Yet even with these he was always under the 
eyes of a nurse or governess, until he was twelve 
years old, when he entered the Academy, and had 
acquired a fastidious dislike to all things rough or 
rude. A hearty game of romps he considered low, 
and his little affectations of foppishness would have 
been ludicrous if they were not painful to a thought- 
ful observer. He was careful about his dress, neat 
to dandyism, and only saved from being a silly fop 
by a true love of study, and an active vigorous 
intellect. 

He put aside his pen, arranged his papers, and 
was brushing his hair, when an impatient little fist 
pounded upon the door of his room. 

“ Harry, ’et me in !” cried a sweet baby voice. 
“ I ’se doing to dinner wiv ’oo.” 

“ You ! Oh no, Etta,” Harry said, opening the 


i6 


ALMOST A MAN. 


door, and lifting his little sister in his arms. 
“ Little girls do n’t come to the table.” 

“But I is,” the child persisted. “Aunt Ellen 
asked papa, an’ papa said ’ess.” 

“He did. Come along then. Shall I carry 
you ?” 

“ No. Put Etta down an’ she ’ll ’alk by ’oo like 
a big lady to dinner. Do n’t ’oo see I ’m all 
spandy clean for dinner. Oh my !” And full of 
the importance of this first introduction to her fa- 
ther’s table, Etta tossed back the long golden curls 
from her face, smoothed her snowy dress and 
broad black sash, and walked gravely beside her 
tall brother, her blue eyes full of earnest triumph 
at this great step in her baby-life. 

“Aunt Ellen says little dirls ’aint bothers if 
they ’have nice,” she said, in a confidential whis- 
per ; “ an’ she do n’t wear shiny fings little dirls 
must n’t touch, like mamma, but tooked me in her 
lap an’ told me a booful, booful ’tory ’bout a bad 
child an’ a dood child, same as me when I ’m bad 
an’ dood. An’ she finks dolls a’ n’t same as folks, 
’cause they do n’t know about fings.” 

“ What things, Etta ?” 

“Black sashes an’ fwocks an’ hats, same as 


mine. 


A TALK OF THE FUTURE . 17 

But here Ettas confidences were cut short by 
opening the diningroom door, and the explanation 
must be made in another chapter. 

Miss Ellen Westbrooke, who had consented to 
remain for a time with her brother, had won his 
consent to having Etta with the family at meal- 
times, and had provided a high chair for her. And 
her father missing the beautiful face of his wife, 
and the usual guests around his table, was well 
pleased to see the baby face, grave with importance 
and the necessity of perfect decorum. 

Without a word of silent or spoken blessing the 
Westbrookes sat down to their luxurious meal. 


Almost A Man. 


3 


i8 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER II. 

AUNT ELLEN. 

When Miss Westbrooke had left Harry in the 
drawingroom, she had gone directly to the nursery 
where Etta slept, played, ate, and in short lived, 
with her nurse Margaret, a middle-aged woman who 
had the sole charge of the child, although Etta 
took a daily walk or drive with a smart French 
nurse, whose ungrammatical and ignorant use of 
her native language was expected to give the child 
a good foundation for her future education. 

This young woman Miss Westbrooke found 
seated before a fancy table covered with black 
materials, while upon her lap lay a large and ex- 
pensive doll. Margaret working busily at the 
other side of the room was evidently not favorably 
inclined towards Jeannette or her occupation. 

“ What are you doing ?” Miss Westbrooke 
asked, seeing the maid measuring the large doll 
with the sombre materials. 

“ But, mam’selle,” said the nurse, " I make ze 
black for ze doll. Ze canary is dead !” 

“Canary dead, all deaded!” chimed in Etta’s 


AUNT ELLEN. 


19 


sweet baby voice, “an’ Jeannette is doin’ to put all 
’e dollies in black, same as Etta !” 

Miss Westbrooke stood aghast. In her quiet 
country life she had heard of fashionable follies, 
and in the few short weeks she had spent in her 
brother’s house, had seen many things that sur- 
prised and grieved her ; but the hideous mockery 
of this nursery mourning was like a blow to her 
sensitive nature. “ Etta darling,” she said quickly, 
“dollies do not know or feel, dear! Tell Jeannette 
to put away all that crape and black, and dress 
your beautiful dolly as she was dressed before.” 

“ But my canary is dead !” persisted Etta. 
“ And Daisy Martin’s dollies all weared black 
dresses when her poodle doggie died.” 

“ It ’s just awful,” said Margaret, “ that’s what it is, 
ma’am. I ’m not here long, only seven months, but 
what ’s spent in this nursery would keep two fami- 
lies in food and clothes. I ’m not saying I ’d take 
a child’s toys away ; but to go and buy the best of 
crape and bombazine to put mourning on a doll is 
downright sinful, to my thinking.” 

“ And to mine,” said Miss Westbrooke gravely, 
“ I must insist upon your putting those things 
away, Jeannette ; and say no more, if you please to 
Etta, about changing her doll’s dress.” 


20 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“ May I put on her dewlry then ?” asked Etta. 

“ Yes, dear !” 

“ Where is it, Jeannette ?” the child asked. 

Jeannette, not altogether sorry to put by her 
work, took from a small locked box a set of jewel- 
ry, tiny and exquisite, and handed it to Miss West- 
brooke. 

“ Mees Etta might might break ze clasps,” she 
said ; “ and Mrs. Westbrooke have said to me, she 
not to touch ze jewels herself.” 

“ They are not real ?” cried Miss Westbrooke. 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Margaret, “Miss Etta’s pa- 
pa had them made to order for the large doll on 
Christmas. Pure gold and real stones ! That 
dollie’s trunk of clothes and jewel case, cost hun- 
dreds of dollars.” 

“Turn an’ see,” said Etta, pulling her aunt to a 
small trunk which she opened. It was full of dolls’ 
clothing of expensive materials, beautifully made, 
and the wardrobe comprised every article used by a 
lady of fashion, in miniature. Tiny fans, scent bot- 
tles, embroidered handkerchiefs, kid gloves, every 
detail for most elaborate toilets for morning, dinner, 
walking, and ball dresses, lay before Miss West- 
brooke’s eyes. “Are you very fond of playing 
with your doll ?” she asked Etta. 


AUNT ELLEN. 


21 


“ Tan’t pay wiv her. Beak her all to pieces !” 
was the reply. “Jeannette dresses her, and puts 
her to bed an’ all’e fings. Etta holds her vewy 
tarefully !” 

Miss Westbrooke thought of the rag-baby that 
had been her chief toy more than fifty years before, 
of the care she had bestowed upon its one calico 
dress, of the nights she had cuddled it in her arms 
to sleep, of the love she had given to it, and was 
sorry for this baby, whose splendid playthings 
could only be handled by a French maid, and 
touched by their owner very carefully. Delighted 
to display her treasures, Etta led her aunt to her 
cabinet of toys, to show her the costly array, more 
or less damaged, but all of the most expensive 
kind. And yet it was evident that the little golden- 
haired child found little real pleasure in her minia- 
ture bazaar. 

“You see, ma’am,” Margaret said, “Miss Etta 
is not allowed to touch the mechanical toys, and 
she does not care for the tea-sets and furniture sets 
when* she is alone. Her mamma let her have a 
party sometimes, and the little ladies had tea in the 
nursery out of the cups and saucers. But, bless 
you, they turn up their noses at nurseries after they 
are six years old, and are dancing in drawing-rooms 


ALMOST A MAN. 


like grown people, all tricked out in finery. We 
had a doll’s party last winter, and the dolls were 
dressed like ladies and gentlemen, real jewelry, real 
lace and all. Miss Etta’s doll was one of the hand- 
somest, I will say, and Jeannette was one entire 
week making and trimming the dress. The Honi- 
ton lace on it cost no trifle, and yet children are 
.starving in garrets in this very city !” 

Jeannette gave her shoulders a shrug, as she 
always did when Margaret expressed her opinion 
of the luxuries of the nursery, and Etta looked up with 
a puzzled face, wondering if she was being scolded. 

Miss Westbrooke made no comment, unwilling 
to seem to censure her sister-in-law to her servants, 
and yet feeling shocked at the waste around her : 
useless waste, for Etta herself evidently found no 
real pleasure in the possession of so-oalled play- 
things too costly to play with, and dolls’ dresses 
whose value was entirely beyond her baby com- 
prehension. 

“ Etta’s weal dolly, all booful, Margar-et f rowed 
away,” she said presently. 

“A dead mouse, ma’am, that she found in the 
closet, and pinned up in a pocket handkerchief. 
She nursed it all one morning, but I had to throw 
•it away.” 


AUNT ELLEN. 


23 


“Poor child,” said Miss Westbrooke, smiling. 
“ I should like to have her in the country with me, 
to pet the little chickens and kittens.” 

“ Oh,” said Etta, drawing close to her aunt. 

“ Shall I tell you about them ? Come sit on 
my lap,” said her aunt, taking her up very lovingly. 

Then she told the little one of her country 
home, of the flowers in the garden, the fruits on 
bushes and trees, the little downy chickens, and 
great hens, the gray cat and four little kitties. And 
the child listened with delight, often asking eager 
questions, and quite willing to leave ail her toys to 
listen to the sweet voice. 

“Do you like stories, Etta?” Miss Westbrooke 
asked. 

“ Do n’t know,” was the reply. 

“ Shall I tell you one ?” 

“ ’Ess,” was the quick and very emphatic 
answer. “ Etta likes to hear ’00 talk.” 

“ Do you, dear ?” 

“’Ess, and Etta likes to sit in ’00 lap, ’cause ’00 
a’ n’t ’fwaid of bein’ mussed as Jeannette is, and ’00 
a’ n’t too busy, as Margaret is, and ’00 a’ n’t dot 
shiny fings to be broked if ’ittle dirls touch.” 

Loving arms clasped the child close, loving lips 
pressed her baby face, and Miss Westbrooke’s eyes 


24 


ALMOST A MAN. 


were dim as she lifted her heart in silent prayer 
for this little one, whose childhood was deprived of 
childhood’s sweetest privilege, a mother’s caresses, 
a mother’s true love. No French dolls, no costly 
toys, could give little Etta the perfect happiness 
she felt as she nestled in her aunt’s arms, and 
knew the pleasure of a loving embrace. 

Margaret went down stairs to see about some 
fine ironing on Etta’s dresses. Jeannette, seeing 
the child cared for, went to her own room, to devote 
an hour or two to her own sewing, and in the quiet 
room Miss Westbrooke told Etta simple stories 
suited to her comprehension, about little girls and 
boys. 

Presently she was interrupted, the child sitting 
erect upon her knee, to ask, “ But, auntie, what did 
Mawy pway for ?” 

“To ask God to take care of her, and make her 
be good.” 

Still the child looked puzzled. 

“ Do n’t you ask Jesus to love you and keep you, 
and to make you a good girl, Etta ?” 

“No. Margaret took Etta to church one day, 
and a man in a high box talked, and Margaret said 
he was saying pwayers. Do ’ittle dirls like me dit 
in high boxes and talk ?” 


AUNT ELLEN. 


-5 


“ No, darling,” said Miss Westbrooke wondering 
if missionary work was not as much needed in that 
luxurious home in a Christian city, as in Africa 
itself. “ No, darling, little girls do not pray aloud 
in a pulpit, but every little girl may kneel down in 
her own room and ask Jesus to bless her ” 

“Ask Jesus to bess her?” repeated the child 
imitating her aunt’s grave tone. 

“Shall auntie tell you about Jesus who loves 
little children ?” asked Miss Westbrooke. 

“’Ess” 

And then, as all children will, Etta listened 
with deep pleasure to the beautiful story of the 
nativity ; the story children never tire of hearing, of 
that tender Saviour who took little children in his 
arms and blessed them. The questions Etta asked 
proved how entirely new the lovely narrative was 
to her, how utterly ignorant she was of all Christian 
teaching : and yet her sweet, serious face, her 
evident interest proved as well that her aunt had 
succeeded in suiting her words perfectly to the 
child’s comprehension. 

The afternoon was over, and the twilight of a late 
spring day had set in, when Miss Westbrooke, put- 
ting the child down, after teaching her a short simple 
prayer, called Margaret to dress her for dinner. 

4 


Almost a Man. 


26 


ALMOST A MAN. 


The nurse was surprised to hear that Etta was 
to be allowed to sit at the table, but well pleased 
at the prospect of loving care being extended to 
her. 

“For indeed, ma’am, the fine ironing and the 
plain sewing keep me busy, and Jeannette has all 
the dressmaking and hat-trimming to do, when she 
is not walking with Miss Etta. And the child’s 
troublesome, because she ’s lonesome. I ’m glad to 
hear you are going to stay, ma’am.” 

“ I shall stay for the present,” said Miss West- 
brooke, “ and I will get Etta some patchwork to 
teach her to sew, and a doll she can dress herself, 
to amuse her. The toys can stay as they are to 
look at, but I will give my little niece something to 
play with, and some trifling work to do. She will 
be happier if she is employed.” 

Margaret, who was a well-meaning Christian 
woman, but afraid to interfere with the rules of the 
nursery, listened to the lisping, but reverent version 
Etta gave her of the holy story that had sunk deep 
into her baby mind. 

“And Margy,” the child said, “Jesus is way up 
in ’e booful sky, and he can hear if Etta asks him 
to take dood care of her and make her a dood dirl.” 

“Yes, deary, he can hear.” 


AUNT ELLEN. 


2 7 


“ And he loves ’ittle dirls. And he tooked ’em 
in his arms to love ’em, same as auntie tooked 
Etta. A’ n’t auntie nice, Margy ?” 

“ Very nice, such aunties as yours.” 

“ I love her. I love her better ’n all ’e fings in 
’e cabinet or dollies or anyfing. And she’s doin’ 
to have Etta to bekfus and dinner wiv papa and 
brover Hawwy. And I ’m doin’ to tell Hawvvy, 
my hair ’s all curled, and my dress on.” 

In the meantime, Miss Westbrooke, in her own 
room, was kneeling in fervent prayer for guidance 
and strength in the duties before her, which she 
approached with trembling, knowing that her own 
strength was far too feeble to meet them. 

Younger than her brother, she was but a child 
when he left his country home to seek his fortune 
in the great city. As years rolled by she heard of 
his prosperity, but saw him very seldom, once at the 
funeral of their mother, once before his marriage 
when she made him a brief visit. Her own duties 
as teacher in a district school, kept her at home ; 
and after her brother’s marriage she was shy of 
’•meeting his fashionable wife, being herself no 
longer young, and knowing nothing of the life of 
the wealthy in the great metropolis. 

She had gratefully accepted her brother’s gift 


28 


ALMOST A MAN. 


of a sum trifling to him, but affording her an in- 
come more than sufficient for her simple wants ; 
and she had given up her school, and lived her 
quiet useful life upon the farm her father had left 
her, thinking of no change, until the letter came 
announcing Mrs. Westbrooke's dangerous illness, 
and begging her to come to the city. 

It had given her deep pleasure, that in the hour 
of sorrow, almost the first deep grief of his pros- 
perous life, her brother had turned to her for help 
and comfort, and she answered the call at once. 
It was touching to see how the old man met her, 
with the old boy love reviving in his heart, and 
with a strange sense of dependence upon her quiet 
good judgment and grave nature. 

“ You will know just what to do, Ellen,” he said, 
“ and I can leave Louisa in your care with an easy 
mind. I cannot trust her entirely to hired nurses, 
and she has no near relatives.” 

Later, when all care failed to keep away the 
angel of death, when, all unconscious of her dan- 
ger, Louisa Westbrooke passed away, the bereaved 
husband clung still more closely to his only sister. 

“ Do not leave us,” he pleaded ; “ the farm is in 
good hands, you say.” 

“Yes, David and Mary have lived with me so 


AUNT ELLEN. 


29 


many years, they know exactly what to do. I am 
not uneasy about the farm. But, Henry, I know 
nothing of the control of such a house as this.” 

“ Mrs. White understands her business ; Louisa 
had no care of the housekeeping. But I need you, 
Ellen, and the children want some one to take their 
mother’s place. I have lost so many little ones, 
sister, that these two are doubly dear to me. But 
I am a busy man, having little time from my work, 
and have left the control of domestic matters en- 
tirely to Louisa. So I leave it to you. Make any 
changes that you think best, but I beg of you be a 
mother to my children.” 

Miss Westbrooke, conscientiously striving to 
fill this new position faithfully, found children, who, 
even while having a mother, were already orphaned, 
their father devoted to money-making, their mother 
but a name. And when death claimed her, she 
left no void that the maiden aunt could fill. She 
could never wear gay ball dresses, dance half the 
night, sleep half the day, pay ceremonious calls, 
preside at stately dinners, give weekly receptions ; 
but she could, she hoped, win the love of these 
young hearts confided to her care, lead them to a 
higher view of duty and to a nobler life. 


30 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER III. 

A DESECRATED SABBATH. 

The funeral services for Mrs. Westbrooke had 
taken place on Wednesday, and the routine of life 
was taken up by the older members of the house- 
hold the next morning, as usual. Mr. Westbrooke 
went to his office, having given baby Etta a most 
loving caress after breakfast, which she related to 
Margaret thus : 

“Dess papa’s doing to love Etta too, same as 
auntie ; ’cause he kissed me two times hard.” 

Harry with his books went to the academy, and 
Miss Westbrooke took Etta to her own room to 
delight her heart by the possession of a small work- 
box and some patches of gay chintz to be sewed 
together. It was a pretty sight to see the earnest 
little face, gravely puckered lips, and strained fin- 
gers over the new task, and the morning passed 
without one of the fits of screaming and crying 
that were of hourly occurrence in the nursery. 

The remainder of the week passed quietly, a 
new experience being given both to Harry and 
Etta, the former being taken into closer compan- 


A DESECRA TED SABBAT. H. 


3i 


ionship with his father, the latter being her aunt’s 
charge and pleasure. 

Sunday morning, a clear, cloudless day in May, 
found the small family assembled at breakfast, 
rather later than usual, business and school not 
requiring haste from Mr. Westbrooke and his son. 
They chatted pleasantly till the meal was over, when 
Miss Westbrooke rising from the table, asked, 

“ Where do you usually attend church, Henry ?” 

“ I — well really, Ellen, I seldom go. I usually 
give Sunday morning to such correspondence as is 
not pressing. I believe Louisa went to the church 
whose spire you see from your window, where we 
were married — in fact, Grace Church.” 

Deeply pained, but mindful of the children’s 
presence, Miss Westbrooke said : 

“You will go with me, I hope, Harry.” 

“Thank you,” was the reply, in tones of the 
most perfect courtesy, “ I should like to do so, but 
I have made another engagement.” 

Mr. Westbrooke had left the diningroom, after 
answering his sister, Etta dancing along beside 
him to the staircase, on her way to the nursery, so 
that Miss Westbrooke was alone with her nephew. 

“ Do you think, Harry,” she said gently and 
gravely, “ that any engagement should make you 


32 


ALMOST A MAN. 


neglect so important a duty, as the weekly service 
of devotion to your Creator ?” 

Harry looked a little surprised, but said, “ Oh, 
you must not think we are all heathens, Aunt 
Ellen. Of course we go to church, as everybody 
else does who is respectable. But I really have 
made an important engagement to-day. Walter 
Meredith is going over some of my books with me, 
and being in a higher class he can give me very 
material assistance. So you see I shall not be 
wasting my time.” 

“But breaking the Lord’s especial command- 
ment, ‘ Remember the Sabbath-day, to keep it holy. 
Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work.’ ” 

Harry made an impatient movement, but no 
reply, having a gentlemanly sense of the respect 
due to an elderly lady and his father’s sister, but 
inwardly rebelling a little at being “ preached to.” 

“ Had you not better break your engagement ?” 
Miss Westbrooke asked, putting her gentle hand 
lovingly upon her nephew’s shoulder. 

“ I really could not, auntie. Walter will come 
here by my express invitation, and it would be pos- 
itive rudeness for me to be out.” 

Then to avoid further urging, Harry also left 
the room, knowing little of the heart-sinking he 


A DESECRA TED SABBATH. 


33 


left behind him, the yearning prayer that followed 
his careless steps. 

“ I hope auntie is n’t to be everlastingly preach- 
ing at a fellow,” he thought, as he arranged his 
books and papers ; “ I like her now first-rate ; but if 
she 's going to quote Scripture at me, I shall keep 
out of her way. Time enough for that, when a 
man’s gray and old !” 

Then like a knife-thrust came the thought of 
his mother, neither gray nor old, stricken down so 
suddenly, gone from such bright, beautiful life, to 
the grave. She went to church sometimes he knew, 
but it was more frequently after the purchase of 
some new and expensive dress than at any other 
time. In fact church-going was by no means the 
rule in the house ; the horses were overworked or 
had been out late ; the ball had caused sleepiness ; 
the day was cloudy, threatening destruction to 
finery; excuses even more trivial were of weekly 
recurrence. Mr. Westbrooke never attended di- 
vine service, writing all the morning, generally 
sleeping in the afternoon ; and Harry went with 
his mother or not, as suited him best, regularity 
being difficult to exact in children, with their pa- 
rents’ example to the contrary ever before them. 

The books and papers were forgotten for a time, 
5 


Almost A Man. 


34 


ALMOST A MAN. 


as the lad thought more deeply of his aunt’s words. 
Were they all indeed Sabbath-breakers, not from 
any stress of necessity, not from any pressure of 
temptation, not from any emergency, but habitually, 
carelessly disregardful of one of God’s own espe- 
cial commands ! 

It was not often that Harry Westbrooke gave 
any thought to religious matters. His many and 
costly gifts from both parents had never included 
a Bible, and he knew but little of its holy teachings. 
He had never been required to attend Sunday- 
school, and church-going was a rather tedious way 
to display a new suit. 

“ I wonder if it is really wrong to study on Sun- 
day,” he thought, shifting his books about. “ I al- 
ways learned Monday’s lessons on Sunday evening, 
and nobody found any fault. Nobody ever did find 
much fault with me and the boy drew himself up 
proudly, not aware that the praise he had received 
was far more due to the over-indulgence of his eld- 
ers, than to his own merits. 

“ Father never goes to church,” he thought 
presently ; “ he works on Sunday, as well as week 
days, so it can’t be very wicked ! I wonder if aunt 
will try to convert him.” 

A little laugh ended this thought, but there 


A DESECRA TED SABBATH. 


35 


was no mirth in it. For the first time in his life, 
Harry Westbrooke doubted whether his fathers 
example was his surest guide. He knew well that 
the acquisition of wealth had been the leading mo- 
tive of his father’s whole life, and his life had cer- 
tainly been a worldly success. But was there not 
something higher for which to live, something his 
aunt Ellen seemed to live for ? The sweetness 
and quiet dignity of Miss Westbrooke had made a 
great impression upon her nephew’s mind. He 
had often heard his mother speak rather slighting- 
ly of his aunt, as a poor maiden woman living on a 
farm, probably drudging her life out in the midst 
of pigs and poultry; and he had pictured to him- 
self a coarse, ignorant woman, such as he had seen 
peddling vegetables in the city streets, red-faced 
and vulgar, with high voice and total disregard of 
all grammatical rules. 

Instead, he saw a tall, slender lady, with a love- 
ly face, soft gray hair covered with a lace cap, mild 
blue eyes, and the sweetest voice he had ever 
heard. In manner she was dignified, but very 
gentle, and vulgarity or ignorance could never be 
associated with her name, after once her voice had 
been heard, or her manner criticised, for in every 
action, every expression, there was a mild serenity, 


ALMOST A MAN. 


36 

that Harry felt instinctively was born of a higher 
peace of mind than mere worldly prosperity could 
give. 

While he thought, his friend came in, a lad of 
nineteen, another fashionable youth, but one whose 
education had thrown him more into the world 
than Harry’s had done. He was fond as his young 
friend of study, but he had advanced more rapidly 
and would enter college in a few more months. 
Orphaned while but a babe, he had been in board- 
ing-schools until at nineteen he came to the Acad- 
emy in New York, boarding in a stylish establish- 
ment, liberally supplied with pocket-money by the 
guardians who had the care of his fortune. 

“ What are you dreaming about ?” he said. 
“Your door was not quite closed, so I could see 
your doleful face as I came up the stairs.” 

Harry blushed, half ashamed of his serious 
thought being brought before his companion’s 
bantering tongue. 

“I was thinking of serious matters,” he said, 
however, “apropos of a little sermon on Sabbath- 
breaking I heard this morning.” 

“Aunt?” 

Harry nodded. 

“ I thought so. I saw her yesterday, and made 


A DESECRATED SABBATH. 37 

up my mind she was one of the canting kind. I 
know them ! The last boarding-school I went to 
we had religion for every meal, a double dose on 
Sunday. Scripture reading every morning, till it’s 
a wonder we were not a collection of saints. Bah ! 
Vive la bagatelle. Time enough to be solemn, I 
say, when youth has had her hour.” 

Where had Harry heard the words that came 
into his heart instantly, as if in answer to his com- 
panion’s sneers ? “ Remember thy Creator in the 

days of thy youth.” 

He did not answer, and Walter continued : 

“What were youth, health, good spirits, given 
to us for, if not to enjoy life? It is lovely to-day, 
the sky perfectly cloudless and the air soft and 
warm. I don’t propose to waste it in a stuffy 
church, listening to a prosy preacher, droning 
away for an hour or two. No, sir. We will get 
over that hitch of yours in a few minutes and then 
take a drive. I ’ve ordered a trap for Central Park, 
and I propose to show some of our friends how to 
handle the ribbons. You’ll come?” 

“ Certainly,” said Harry, already forgetting his 
stirring of conscience, as he listened to Walter’s 
cheery voice, ringing with excitement. “ Shall I 
ride, or will your trap seat two ?” 


33 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“Oh drive with me. We can ride next week. 
I am going to show you a little life. You see,” 
said Walter, settling back in a comfortable chair, 
and clasping his hands behind his head, “ I ’ve been 
rather slow about making friends at the Academy, 
for between ourselves, there are a good many 
parvenu fellows there, ready enough to imitate good 
style, but showing a youth of low associations. You 
understand.” 

“I do,” said Hirry, swallowing the implied 
flattery. 

“ Shoddy, you know. I ’m rather old myself to 
be there, but my tender guardians insisted on my 
being a school-boy for an unreasonable time, and 
as they held the purse-strings, I could only submit. 
They flatter themselves that I will finish the college 
course, but I am of age in two years, and then — ” 
a shrug left the future to be imagined. 

“ But I should hate to leave a college course 
unfinished,” said Harry. 

“ Pshaw ! I mean to travel, to see life abroad, 
to study what I will and when I will. I think I 
have brains enough to get what good college will 
do me in two years. At any rate when I am of age 
I ’ll submit no longer to dictation. Now, old fellow, 
show me your difficulty.” 


A DESECRATED SABBATH , . 


39 


Half an hour passed in examination of school- 
books, and Walter good naturedly explained the 
passages that were puzzling Harry. Then, arrayed 
in faultless spring costume, with his mourning- 
studs and crape hat-band proclaiming his recent 
loss, Harry sallied forth, arm in arm with his more 
gayly-attired friend, to meet the carriage. 

It was a perfect day, and the roads to the Park 
were filled with vehicles, more or less stylish, con- 
taining pleasure-seekers. Walter drove well, in a 
bold, showy manner, and his turnout was unexcep- 
tionable. Harry, exhilarated by the soft spring air 
and the rapid motion, had soon thrown all his scruples 
to the winds. But the lad, although indulged in 
all extravagant desires, and left in perfect freedom 
so far as his expenses were concerned, had been 
kept in restraint to a great extent by love of books 
and a desire to excel in his studies. His pleasures 
had consisted of evenings spent at the opera 
beside his mother, or assisting her in the entertain- 
ment of her friends, but he had made no intimate 
friends excepting among his school companions 
whose ambitions and pursuits were the same as his 
own. From all vulgar vice he shrank instinctively, 
and his introduction to vice under the garb of 
refinement had not commenced. 


40 


ALMOST A MAN. 


He saw no harm in driving to the door of a 
stylish-looking restaurant, and entering, calling for 
dinner and wine. The drive had been a long one, 
and they had met many acquaintances, so it was 
late in the afternoon when the lads, with sharpened 
appetites, sat down to a luxurious dinner. 

“Try that,” Walter said, pushing the bottle he 
had just ordered to his companion. “ I can answer 
for its being good. They know better than to bring 
me poor wine here,” he added, unconscious of the 
sneering smile the waiter behind him concealed 
from the table by a flourish of his napkin, but 
which was plainly visible to the other white-aproned 
men near him. 

Rather poorly imitating the airs of a connois- 
seur in wine, Harry poured out a glass, held it up 
to the light, and swallowed it. Not altogether a 
new experience, but one glass, at his father’s table, 
had been before the limit of the lad’s indulgence. 

“ Good, is it ?” asked Walter. “ I thought so. 
Let me fill your glass again.” And with a false 
shame at being thought boyish Harry permitted the 
wine to be passed to him again and again, till his 
face was flushed and his brain dizzy. 

“ I ’ll be all right when I am in the air,” he 
thought ; “ the room is close and hot.” 


A DESECRATED SABBATH. 


41 


But in the air the dizzy nausea increased, and 
he reeled against Walter, who laughingly assisted 
him to his seat, and sprang up beside him. 

“You’ll spend the evening with me,” he said 
tossing the reins to the man waiting at the door of 
the boarding-house, “ I ’ve invited two fellows to 
meet you, first-rate fellows too.” 

The drive had somewhat restored Harry’s reel- 
ing brain, and he followed Walter steadily enough 
up the stairs, to his handsome room. The friends 
arrived later, and after some chat Harry was shock- 
ed to see cards produced for “ a friendly rubber.” 

“ No gambling,” Walter said, “ only a rubber to 
pass the time.” 

“ But on Sunday.” 

“ Pshaw ! Do n’t be a Puritan at seventeen. 
You play.” 

“ Not well. I never cared for cards.” 

“But you’ll not be ill-natured and spoil the 
game. There are just four of us. Jack, if you’ll 
open that closet behind you, you ’ll find a decanter 
and glasses.” 

“And we’ll play for dollar stakes, just to make 
it lively,” said Jack, producing the decanter. 

It was past midnight when Miss Westbrooke, 

awakened from sleep by stumbling steps near her 
6 


42 


ALMOST A MAN. 


door, heard Harry go into his room, and feared he 
was ill. She rose hastily, threw on slippers and 
wrapper, and knocked at her nephew’s door. 

“ Who ’s there ?” he asked, in a thick voice. 

“ Are you ill, dear ?” 

“ No, I ’m all right.” 

But the voice told even Aunt Ellen’s inexper- 
ience in such sounds the humiliating truth, and 
there was no more sleep for her, as full of sorrow 
she prayed for the lad whose feet were entering 
upon such dangerous paths. 

“ Help me, O Heavenly Father,” she prayed, 
“ to save him from sin and drunkenness. Grant 
me, in thy mercy, strength to guide and save him.” 


RESOLUTION AND TEMPTATION. 


43 


CHAPTER IV. 

RE SOL UTION A ND TEMP TA TION. 

The sound of the dressing-bell on Monday 
morning roused Harry from a deep slumber, and 
he sat up bewildered, wondering vaguely what had 
happened to make his head so hot and dizzy, and 
give him such a deathly sickness in his stomach. 
It seemed as if weeks had passed since he left the 
room the previous day, with Walter Meredith. 

While he sat stupidly trying to collect his ideas, 
his eyes fell upon the books waiting for his hand 
and brain at the usual school hour, and memory 
struggled back to him. What was it he'had learn- 
ed the day before that was to carry him triumphant- 
ly to the head of his class ? # What explanation was 
it that had seemed so clear to him when he closed 
the book, and was so dim and confused in his mind 
now ? 

Then, following the train of thought awakened 
by the recollection of Walter’s call, he knew what 
was the degrading cause of his unpleasant sensa- 
tions. He, Harry Westbrooke, who, boy as he 
was, had prided himself upon being a gentleman, 


44 


ALMOST A MAN. 


had been intoxicated ! It was useless to argue 
with himself that gentlemen were often overcome 
with wine. He knew the degradation was the same, 
whether a ragged street ruffian staggered to the 
stationhouse in the hands of the policeman, or a 
well-dressed man of wealth was carried home in his 
own carriage and cared for by well-paid servants. 

There was no compunction of conscience for 
having broken one of God’s express commands, and 
desecrated his holy day, but a humiliating shame 
that he had lowered himself from his own standard 
of refinement. 

“That shall not happen again,” he thought; 
“ who could have imagined a few glasses of wine 
could have so lowered me ! And did not Aunt 
Ellen come to my door? Did she know, I won- 
der?” 

A light tap at the door seemed to answer this 
question, for a pleasant voice asked, immediately 
after, 

“ May I come in, Harry ?” 

“Yes,” was the answer, though Harry wished 
he could escape the reproach he felt was coming. 

“ I have a cup of hot tea for you,” Miss West- 
brooke said, coming to the bedside. 

Harry’s lip quivered, and his eyes filled, as a 


RESOLUTION AND TEMPTATION 


45 


gentle, cool hand softly touched his hot head, and 
in quick shame and penitence, he said, 

“Aunt Ellen, I am ashamed to look at you. 
But it is the first time I have ever taken too much 
wine, and it shall be the last.” 

The gentle caressing hand trembled a little, and 
a hot tear fell from Miss Westbrooke’s eyes upon 
Harry’s face, 

“ Do n’t, please do n’t,” he cried, completely 
overcome by this proof of tender sympathy. “ It is 
not worth such sorrow from you.” 

“ Harry,” his aunt said, tenderly, “ will you not 
let me take a mother’s place in your love and con- 
fidence? You say this is the first time you have 
been overcome by wine, but the wrong began be- 
fore the wine was tasted.” 

* You think I was wrong to go to drive instead 
of going to church ?” 

“ Was it right ?” 

“ Perhaps not ; but you see, Auntie, we were never 
a church-going family.” 

“You are old enough now, Harry, to go from 
higher motives than merely following the example 
of others. If you have not been trained to worship 
and devotion to your Maker, you are now sufficient- 
ly matured to seek the right path, and follow it. 


46 


ALMOST A MAN. 


You say you will not fall again as you fell last eve- 
ning. Dear boy, your own strength will never 
keep you from yielding to temptation. You have 
sinned against God. There is but one way out of 
sin, Harry, either past or future. We can not ob- 
literate the past by excuses, or fortify ourselves 
against future wrong-doing by mere good resolu- 
tions. The Bible way is simple ; we must confess 
and forsake it. “ If we confess our sins, He is 
faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to 
cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” Faith in 
Christ our divine Redeemer and Saviour is the only 
remedy for sin. Look to Jesus, Harry, in earnest 
prayer, and his grace will be given you. I will not 
stay now, for it is time you were up, but leave you 
to ask for help where it is never denied.” A loving 
kiss was pressed upon Harry’s lips, and Miss West- 
brooke left the room. The lad rose at once, bathed 
his head and face in cold water, drank the tea, and 
dressed hastily, longing for fresh air to scatter what 
dizziness still remained in his head. As soon as he 
was dressed he opened his windows wide, breathing 
in the cool, fresh morning air with keen pleasure. 

“ Something like myself again,” he thought 
after a few minutes. “ I wonder if I can remember 
what Walter explained yesterday. Let me see— 


RESOLUTION AND TEMPTATION 


47 


here are my notes. Ten minutes before breakfast- 
time. I ’ll go over this once more.” 

Sitting down, Harry was opening his book when 
his aunt’s last words came back to his mind. 
“ Prayer,” he thought, “ Aunt Ellen believes that 
prayer will keep me from temptation. But there 
is no great temptation to me in drinking wine. I 
was only ignorant of its effect upon me. There is 
no danger of my indulging in that vice. And the 
Sabbath-breaking! I suppose, as she says, I am 
old enough to do what is right, whether I have an 
example set me or not. Dear me, what a bother 
anyhow. I like Aunt Ellen, but it was more com- 
fortable before she came to set a fellow thinking.” 
Yet the thinking or stirring of conscience once 
commenced would not be pushed aside. Harry 
Westbrooke’s intellect was too active to allow the 
old apathy about religious matters to continue to 
exist, when once he had been roused to consider 
them. Without any direct teaching, he had read 
and heard enough of Scriptural commands in church 
and elsewhere, to have a certain familiarity with 
them, yet without the personal convictions they 
would carry to the heart of a boy led by a Christian 
parent. In some of the schools he had attended 
the exercises were commenced by Bible reading 


4 8 


ALMOST A MAN. 


followed by the Lord’s Prayer, and Harry’s voice 
had always been heard in repeating the words with 
the class, simply because it was proper for him to 
do so. But never in the seventeen years of his life 
had he uttered one heartfelt, fervent petition, and 
now Harry suddenly confronted the fact that he did 
not know how to pray. The words of the half- 
forgotten Lord’s Prayer repeated at school came to 
his memory, and he wondered if saying those would 
really help him resist the temptations of the 
previous day. 

Without opening the book before him, he bowed 
his head and whispered the words, pausing when 
the five of deepest significance at that moment, 
passed his lips. “ Lead us not into temptation !” 
he whispered, and the words carried into his heart 
a fuller meaning than they had ever done before. 
More reverently than he had uttered them in all 
his life he whispered the remainder of the familiar 
prayer, and lifted his head just as the breakfast 
bell sounded. 

“ I ought to kneel to pray,” he thought a mo- 
ment later. “ I will remember next time. Heigho ! 
I am afraid I am a dreadful heathen !” 

Before night the consequences of his ill-spent 
day were pressing still more heavily upon Harry. 


i 




























* 











RESOLUTION AND TEMPTATION 


49 


A headache he could not shake off confused him, 
so that his lessons were imperfect, and his exercises 
far from reaching their usual standard of excellence. 
For the first time since entering the Academy, he 
had to step into a lower place in his class, and his 
mortification was increased by meeting Walter Mer- 
edith’s eyes full of laughing significance. 

When dismissed, Harry was hurrying home, 
keenly ashamed, when Walter’s voice stopped him. 
“ Hold on a minute,” Walter cried, “ what is your 
hurry ?” 

“ Nothing!” Harry replied. 

“Do n’t look so doleful ! Are you sick ?” 

“ My head aches badly.” 

“ Not used to wine and late hours, eh ?” was the 
bantering reply, creating a false shame in Harry’s 
mind, as if his manliness was doubted. “Never 
mind! You’ll soon get used to it. When I was 
at your age, I was a perfect baby; but now I can 
take my bottle with any man, and not feel the worse 
for it.” 

A poor boast, but it was made with an air of 
superiority, that made Harry’s better judgment 
yield to the glamour of being thought manly. 
“ Well,” he said, with an uneasy laugh, “ I suppose 
one requires to be seasoned. I should not care 

Almost A Man. 7 


50 


ALMOST A MAN. 


however, to wake often with such a headache as I 
had this morning.” 

“Where are you going this evening?” 

“Nowhere. I mean to try to regain the place 
I lost this morning.” 

The words were uttered in a resolute tone and 
with such steady eyes that Walter felt it would be 
useless to urge a different course. He was too 
much in sympathy with good scholarship to sneer 
at Harry’s ambition, and really liking his new 
companion said, 

“ I ’ll come over then, for an hour, and if there 
is any hitch I ’ll help you !” 

“ Thanks !” said Harry quickly, “ if you will go 
over the passages we studied yesterday, it will help 
me very much.” 

They parted then, their ways homeward leading 
through different streets. After luncheon, Harry 
went directly to his room, resolved to conquer the 
difficulties over which he had stumbled in the 
morning, and regain his lost position in his class. 
“ Catch me running such a risk again,” he mut- 
tered, “ when I can graduate with all the honors in 
six months. Not I !” 

He studied hard till dinner-time, and was so 
entirely self-absorbed through that meal, that he 


RESOLUTION AND TEMPTATION. 


Si 


was unaware of a cloud upon his father’s face, be- 
sides the one sorrow had so recently left there. 

In the evening Walter Meredith kept his prom- 
ise of assistance, and an hour of diligent study 
quite revived Harry’s spirits. “ I am sure of the 
Latin prize again,” he said in exultation, “ and pret- 
ty safe on geometry. Those are the worst of my 
studies ; all the others are easy enough. French, 
I like, and I do not begin German yet. Father 
thinks one modern language at a time is sufficient, 
and I agree with him. I keep my conversational 
French up with novels.” 

“ A good plan ! I read that way myself.” 

“ What is there new ?” 

“A tiptop thing.” 

Then followed an animated description of one 
of the specimens of modern French literature that 
would have made Aunt Ellen shudder. 

“You see,” Walter Meredith said, “I’ve been 
kept in leading strings so long, that I am really far 
behind fellows of my age who have lived in New 
York. I think I manage to hide my deficiencies 
pretty well, but these country schools keep one 
back awfully. Why, I was a regular muff, when 
I came here, went to church every Sunday, said 
my prayers like a good boy, and got well laughed 


5 2 


ALMOST A MAN. 


at by my guardian’s two sons before I was here 
a Week. They are regular swells, you know, 
older than I am, and I do n’t care much for their 
society, because they put on so many airs, as if liv- 
ing in the city made them look down upon every- 
body who had not been brought up there. When 
it comes to money, you know, I shall have enough 
to buy and sell both of them ; but they are more 
au fait than I am yet. But I ’m learning some- 
thing every day.” 

“And,” said Harry, hesitating a little over the 
words, “ they laughed at you for going to church ?” 

“ The way I went ! Of course they go some- 
times, to meet lady friends or escort their mother. 
But I, bless you, went because all my strait-laced 
teachers persuaded me that I was on the high 
road to destruction if I stayed at home. You 
weren’t brought up with those old-fogy notions, 
and I have had some tutors that turned up their 
noses at it all, but did not dare let the principals 
see them. It would have cost them their situations 
if I had told some of the sarcasms they uttered, but 
they knew they could trust me to hold my tongue.” 

Harry drank in all this poisonous assumption 
of independence with eager attention, and Walter 
continued : 


RESOLUTION AND TEMPTATION 


53 


“ If there is a sneak on earth, it is one of your 
pious good boys, that roll up their eyes in horror 
over an oath, and are ready to faint if you suggest 
a friendly game of cards. I believe they are all a 
pack of hypocrites, and have their own little vices 
in plenty, only they manage to hide them. I de- 
spise cant !” 

“ Goodwin was one of that sort,” said Harry, 
“ trying to convert the whole academy. You know 
we used to open with Bible reading and a prayer.” 

“ Yes ?” 

“Was it before you came ? Yes, it must have 
been. Well, Mr. Huber found he could not give 
us the last explanations in geometry after the 
school increased so rapidly, and so he gave up the 
morning exercises, and commenced the- regular 
routine of lessons at nine o’clock. Goodwin and 
some of the others put in a petition to open school 
as usual fifteen minutes earlier, and it was put to 
vote, and voted down. Then Goodwin’s father 
took him away.” 

“Bah! All cant! I’ve known just such fel- 
lows, and I believe they ’re all ready enough to go 
back on their cant, if they can only do it slyly.” 

What proof he had to support this theory Wal- 
ter did not mention. He was a fine looking young 


54 


ALMOST A MAN. 


man, not so handsome as Harry but with a pleas- 
ant face, a genial voice and a courteous manner, 
and was just enough Harry’s senior for the boy to 
feel flattered at being his chosen companion. His 
natural self-conceit had been encouraged by being 
kept in several schools of younger boys, long after 
he had passed by them in their studies, and become 
a hero among them by his easy acquisition of les- 
sons readily mastered by his mental powers, but 
which were mountains of difficulty to younger brains. 
He was short and slender, really appearing younger 
than Harry who was well grown for his years. 
And yet, he was not deliberately trying to injure 
Harry. He liked him, and finding the broad road 
most enchanting wished his companion to share in 
all its pleasures, careless of the end so well hidden 
by pleasant devices. 

With a father absorbed in business, a mother 
devoted to fashion, Harry had never had but one 
restriction in his choice of associates. Mrs. West- 
brooke had insisted upon her son’s companions be- 
ing his social equals. While a child, playmates 
were only permitted to enter the house if they wore 
dainty suits and lived in fashionable localities. 
At school, he was most strictly forbiden to speak 
to any boys whose attire approached shabbiness, or 


RESOLUTION AND TEMPTATION. 


55 


who were in outward appearance acquainted with 
poverty and when he entered the academy his rules 
in this respect were self-formed upon the same 
basis. He could cut a shabby coat with an air of 
easy contempt rather astonishing for his years, and 
his dainty room was never polluted by the entrance 
of broken boots or well-worn hats. By his standard 
of measurement, Walter Meredith was an unexcep- 
tionable acquaintance. His family was good, his 
wealth would be large ; he patronized only the most 
fashionable tailors, and scorned a twice-worn neck- 
tie or pair of kids. His studs were diamond, his 
watch costly, and his manners were certainly pol- 
ished, though his language was apt to be tinged 
by such slang as people of fashion permit. 

Had Harry consulted father or mother, no fault 
would have been found with his latest intimate 
friend, and no objection was likely to be interposed 
by Miss Westbrooke, who could know nothing of 
the older boy’s pernicious example, and who felt a 
natural reluctance to attempt the exercise of any 
actual authority in regard to her nephew. 

But no one knew or guessed the new dangers 
opening to Harry’s fascinated mind, in his resolve 
to emulate Walter in all those accomplishments he 
thought manly. 


56 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER V. 

MISS WESTBROOKE'S STANDARD. 

The weeks sped by that carried Harry West- 
brooke over the May and June days to the first of 
July and the semi-annual examination at the acad- 
emy. Some of the exultant certainty of success 
in carrying off the most important prizes was 
dimmed in those summer weeks, and in their place 
was an uneasy doubt, but poorly covered by an as- 
sumption of manly contempt for school-boy hon- 
ors. 

“ Of course a fellow wants to keep up with his 
class,” Walter Meredith had said in patronizing 
tones, “ but who will care out of the school whether 
the prizes were gained by Harry Westbrooke or 
by Peter Smith. You will take larger views of life 
soon, Harry, for you are almost a man, and then 
you will smile at yourself for ever having worried 
so over your examination. So long as you are not 
a dunce, and know it, what do such honors as old 
Huber bestows amount to ? Even in college you ’ll 
find the stroke-oar of more importance in his class 
than the book-worm.” 


MISS WESTBROOKE'S STANDARD. 57 

And Harry tried to draw comfort for possible 
failure from this theory, for he was bitterly con- 
scious of many falls from that standard of school 
excellence he had so long maintained. Walter 
Meredith was fond of social gatherings in his own 
room, where he could display his hospitality to 
those secretly-envied sons of his guardian, Jack 
and Will Raymond, and find points for careful im- 
itation in their city-bred tnanners and habits. And 
that he might not be the only “youngster,” in their 
contemptuous regard, he invited Harry as often as 
possible to make one of the party. 

Their aristocratic feelings would probably have 
suffered a severe shock, had any low-bred person 
suggested to them that gambling and drunkenness 
were plain English names for their evening’s 
amusements. Both names were low, and applica- 
ble only to vulgar people. They merely played 
friendly rubbers to pass the time; with trifling 
stakes to make the games interesting, and Walter 
took out his decanter and glasses because, being 
in a boardinghouse, he could not well offer any 
other refreshment in his own room. 

Cigars, of only the choicest brands, usually ac- 
companied the wine, and Harry, after a fierce war 
with his stomach, finally conquered the nausea that 
8 


Almost a Man. 


53 


ALMOST A MAN. 


followed his introduction to tobacco, and puffed 
away with the others. 

More than once his unsteady steps awoke Miss 
Westbrooke ; but she found her gentle advice un- 
heeded, or making but a momentary impression, 
soon effaced by an hours conversation with Wal- 
ter. 

At first, each evening’s dissipation was followed 
by deep shame and resolves to break away from 
temptation in the morning, but the next interview 
with the bantering trio, who were becoming Harry’s 
only associates, scattered shame and good resolu- 
tions to the wind, and again the sin and regret were 
repeated, till the sense of guilt was dulled, and the 
pleasures became habitual. 

Pocket-money was easily renewed, and if Harry 
lost a considerable sum in “trifling stakes” one 
evening, he as often gained the same, for there was 
no cheating in these gentlemanly games, and his 
luck was as apt to be in the ascendant as that of 
his companions. Cigars were an item of expense 
too trifling to be considered, and. if an occasional 
restaurant-supper returned some of the hospitalities 
of his companions, Harry was sure his indulgent 
father would never dispute the bill. 

But, with the examination only two days distant, 


MISS WESTBROOKE'S STANDARD. 


59 


Harry Westbrooke shook his head over two tempt- 
ing invitations from Walter, and resolved to devote 
every hour to study until he went before the 
committee. 

“ I can soon catch up/’ he thought, resolving to 
resist every temptation to idleness, “ and leave the 
Academy with flying colors.” 

But the resolution proved difficult to keep. 
Six weeks of careless skimming over his lessons 
before joining Walter for some party of pleasure, 
had not proved so successful in maintaining an 
honorable place in his classes as previous diligent 
application had done, and it was no easy task to 
supply all the deficiencies, hastily covered up, in 
two days of study, were it ever so conscientiously 
performed. 

Difficulties easily conquered with a clear brain 
and steady hand, were found insurmountable with 
the mind clouded by restless nights, the brain 
weakened by stimulants, and the heart far away 
from the books. Thoughts of this or that scheme 
for ‘‘jolly” days or evenings would come between 
the student and his book, and he was not yet so 
“ seasoned ” to the use of wine, that his brain could 
shake off the effects of more than one night of over- 
indulgence in its use. Saturday and Sunday, when 


6o 


'ALMOST A MAN. 


the school was closed, Harry had resolved to give 
to preparation for Monday’s examination, but Sat- 
urday evening found him already exhausted, his 
head throbbing with pain, his heart sick with dis- 
couragement. 

He had given strict orders to the servants to 
deny him to all visitors, but his pale face and weary 
eyes at dinner-time roused all Miss Westbrooke’s 
loving fears for his health.* 

Conscientiously she had persevered in her gen- 
tle efforts to win his love and confidence, though 
herself unaware of the giants she was fighting. He 
was so little at home, between his absence in school- 
hours, and his devotion to his new companions, that 
his aunt’s opportunities to converse with him were 
very few. Twice she had persuaded him to accom- 
pany her to church, and no fault could be found 
with his perfect decorum in the sacred building. 
But the carelessness of years could not be over- 
come in a few weeks, and while she grieved, Miss 
Westbrooke was not discouraged. 

Yet some gentle remonstrances she had made 
against late hours, some mild words of reproof for 
the stumbling feet, had been answered by Harry’s 
bolting his door against morning visits, and an 
evident avoidance of private interviews. He was 


MISS WESTBROOKE'S STANDARD. 6 1 

not so hardened that the sweet voice and loving 
eyes failed to stir his conscience painfully, and 
so he sought a coward’s remedy and avoided 
them. 

It had the effect of making Miss Westbrooke 
shy of trying to influence her nephew against his 
will. At her age, suddenly brought from the quiet 
of her country home into the whirl and turmoil of 
the city, she was half bewildered at many things 
that seemed monstrous wrongs to her, but were 
quite habitual in her brother’s family. It made her 
timid about offering advice to have it so frequently 
met by a civilly contemptuous comment upon old- 
fashioned or country ideas. And yet she held fast 
to her own principles, though unable to enforce 
their application in the lives of others. 

The total absence of any act of family devotion 
troubled her deeply, yet she could not insist upon 
daily worship in her brother’s house when he said, 

“ We will not start any new fashions, Ellen ; I 
do not see the importance of family prayer, though 
I should never think of controlling the private 
devotions of any one.” 

“ But Henry, your children — the servants.” 

“Oh! servants in the city do not expect to take 
part in family devotion, and would not like it at all. 


62 


ALMOST A MAN. 


And the children ; well, you see Harry is rather old 
to begin with, and Etta is a mere baby. ,, 

“ Henry, your father never thought you were 
too young or too old for his prayers.” 

" Well, well, those were different times, Ellen. 
We were plain country people ; now it is different. 
I must go.” 

So the discussion ended, and Miss Westbrooke 
knew it would be useless to renew it. “ Too old !” 
she thought, her brother’s words recurring to her 
as she listened to his retreating footsteps — “ too old 
at seventeen to begin a Christian life ! Poor boy ! 
His father’s wealth cannot compensate him for the 
loss of a father’s prayers !” 

It made her very pitiful over Harry’s faults, very 
slow to censure him, to know how little parental 
guidance he had had in his young life. That a boy 
of seventeen should have become so familiar with 
stimulants as to show their effects in stumbling feet 
and dizzy head, was a horror to her scarcely to be 
described. That he could converse with his father 
upon the merits of each new public exhibition as it 
attracted attention, troubled her deeply. But worse 
even than these was the light, careless way in which 
all religious topics or conversations were set aside, 
as too trifling for serious attention. Many nights 


MISS WESTBROOKE^ STANDARD. 63 

the old lady’s pillow was wet with tears for brother 
and nephew; many dawns found her praying fer- 
vently for them after hours of sleeplessness. 

On the Saturday evening when Harry, pale and 
dispirited, went to his own room after dinner, Miss 
Westbrooke hesitatingly, but unable to control her 
fears, followed him up stairs. Her gentle tap at the 
door was unheard, and pushing it open, she saw 
Harry sitting at a table covered with books and pa- 
pers, his head bowed down, evidently suffering. 

He started at her gentle touch upon his shoul- 
der, and looked up with a faint smile. 

“ I ’ve been trying to crowd six weeks’ study into 
one day, Auntie,” he said, “ and I am tired out.” 

“I should think you would be. But is there 
any necessity for such overwork ?” 

“ Monday and Tuesday are examination days at 
the Academy, and — well, I have been rather idle 
lately.” 

“What a pity,” said Miss Westbrooke, “when 
you had earned those,” and she looked at the hand- 
somely-framed certificates of merit that had accom- 
panied Harry’s prizes. 

“Yes, I was a regular drudge when I first went 
to the Academy ; but I ’m afraid I shall not add 
anything to that array on Monday.” 


64 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“But you should have found such triumphs 
easier as you grew older.” 

“But — but a fellow has other engagements as 
he gets older, Auntie.” 

“ None, I think, so important as his studies, has 
he, Harry ? Very many boys would be more than 
thankful for your advantages. Your father had no 
more than the education of a district schoolboy, 
very imperfect in those days, when he began to 
earn his own living.” 

“ I know that. He has often told me it is the 
sense of his own deficiencies that makes him so 
very anxious for me to be a good scholar. And yet, 
you see, Auntie, he has been a successful man.” 

“ He has accumulated wealth, Harry.” 

There was a long silence after these few words. 
Harry understood perfectly the thought in his 
aunt’s mind, that money was not the highest good 
to be won in life ; but he did not sympathize with 
her as he imagined he did. After some moments 
of silence, he said, “ Wealth is what the world val- 
ues most highly, Auntie. A rich man is always con- 
sidered a successful one.” 

“ Very true — by those who make the acquisition 
of money their sole aim. But there are higher aims 
that I hope will guide your life ” 


MISS WE STB ROOK E'S STANDARD. 65 

“ Intellectual aims ? I agree with you there : I 
had rather be a great scholar than the richest man 
in New York. I have been ambitious, you see, 
and,” he cried with sudden energy, “ I will be again. 
I will resist the temptation to trifle away my time, 
and gain my old place in my classes. You shall 
see me a closer student after this, Auntie, and per- 
haps one day a great scholar.” 

“ I had far rather see you aiming still higher, my 
dear boy.” 

“ For political honors ? Well, good scholarship 
is not a bad foundation for statesmanship.” 

“Still higher, dear Harry. I honor learning 
and reverence the great men of our government; 
but for you, I would set up a standard at once proud 
and lowly, costing deep struggle, gaining no worldly 
fame — a standard the most ignorant beggar may 
follow, before which the mightiest of this earth may 
bend in homage. Harry, rather than see you 
wealthy or famous, I would see you a Christian 
man. My boy, beyond all this life can offer, is the 
reward of faithful effort to resist evil, for Christ’s 
sake.” 

“You would like me to be a great preacher.” 

“ First a lowly preacher, a humble follower. I 
love you very dearly, Harry ; but I had rather see 
9 


Almost a Man. 


66 


ALMOST A MAN. 


you poor, ignorant, even suffering, and holding fast 
to a firm faith in your Saviour, trusting utterly In 
his mercy, following humbly in his footsteps, than 
to see you occupying the proudest position earth 
can offer, careless of your soul’s salvation.” 

The deep, loving earnestness of Miss West- 
brooke’s voice, the tenderness in her soft blue eyes, 
the caressing touch of her gentle hand, told how 
truly her heart was in her words ; and Harry, whose 
nature was naturally affectionate and easily guided, 
was deeply touched. 

“Your Bible tells you, Harry,” she was saying, 
when he interrupted her, saying, half sadly, half 
smiling, ‘But, Auntie, I have no Bible. I never 
read a page in the Bible in my life.” 

“ Oh, my boy,” Miss Westbrooke said, her eyes 
filling with tears, “ how can you overcome tempta- 
tion without such help ? It bewilders me, Harry, 
to think of a life spent in such careless disregard 
of your Creator. I do not wish to weary you by 
preaching to you ; but I implore you, for your soul’s 
sake, to try to learn the holy teachings you should 
have learned from your infancy. I am past sixty, 
and I cannot remember when Christ was not to. me 
a familiar name, though my childish prayers were 
not the outpourings of my heart, as they became in 


MISS WESTBROOKE'S STANDARD. 67 

later years. But reverence and faith were taught 
me long before I could read. God calls us all, 
Harry, and he makes his voice heard at some time 
in our lives. Some turn to him in gratitude for 
great blessings ; some hear him only when crushed 
by sore affliction. By some, alas, the death agony 
finds his call unheeded. I cannot tell you how ter- 
rible it seems to me, that in a Christian country, in 
a great city, where every advantage is presented on 
all sides, a boy of seventeen, reared in luxury, able 
to read, can say he never opens a Bible.” 

“ Unfortunately from your point of view, Auntie, 
there are plenty to keep me in countenance.” 

“ But now, to-day, Harry, will you not set this 
Christian standard up in your heart ?” 

Harry did not answer. He could not lightly 
speak as his aunt wished. A pledge given to her 
would be a binding one, and he was not prepared so 
to bind himself. 

His own ambition was to excel in intellectual 
pursuits ; his father had awakened a desire for the 
pursuit of- greater wealth through business channels ; 
his mother had made social importance, gentleman- 
ly deportment, and a stylish appearance, the great 
aim ; and now he was asked to let all these be sec- 
ondary to a new object for which to live. 


68 


ALMOST A MAN. 


It was not strange that he hesitated. Miss 
Westbrooke partly understanding the cause of his 
silence, said gently, 

“ I will not urge too much at once, Harry ; but 
if I bring a Bible to you, will you read a little every 
day, for my sake now — soon, very soon, I hope, for 
the happiness and comfort it will bring you ? In 
this blessed book you will find the way to a Chris- 
tian life made plain. Jesus says, ‘ Strait is the gate 
and narrow is the way that leadeth unto life but 
once in that way you will find it pleasantness, and 
its paths peace. The way seems dark now ; but 
ask for light, and you will surely receive it. Pray 
earnestly, daily, without ceasing, for the teaching 
and help of the Holy Spirit. You will find all other 
aims will be brighter to you, when once you can say 
you are one of Christ’s followers. All your joys 
will be doubled, your sorrows lessened, your temp- 
tations weakened. I will leave you now, for you 
ought to rest.” 

She rose as she spoke, but her heart was full of 
gratitude, when Harry, rising also, put his arms 
around her neck, and kissing her, said in a low, 
trembling voice. 

“T will try to do as you wish, Auntie.” 

And it did not grieve her that his voice broke, 


MISS WESTBROOK E’S STANDARD. 69 

and he turned from her to hide a rush of tears, boy- 
ishly ashamed of his own emotion. 

For some hours after, far into the night, he 
studied hard, not wholly discouraged, although full 
of bitter regret, for the lost time, he knew had been 
worse than wasted. 

But when, next morning, Miss Westbrooke, lead- 
ing Etta, came into the hall, dressed for church, her 
heart thrilled with joy to see Harry come from the 
library, hat in hand, to say, 

“Will you take my arm, Auntie? You see,” 
with a pleasant smile, and almost in a whisper, “ I 
want to see your standard in a clear light.” 

And never was a more fervent prayer carried to 
the throne of grace than the one Miss Westbrooke 
offered that morning, that the heavenly light might 
guide Harry’s heart and life. 


70 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER VI. 

TEMPTATION RESISTED. 

“What’s come over Westbrooke ?” Jack Ray- 
mond asked, lolling back on of Walter Meredith’s 
most luxurious chairs ; “ I ’ve not seen him for a 
month.” 

“ Oh, he’s going in for all the Academy honors 
next time, and studying half of the day,” was Wal- 
ter’s reply ; “ he ’s getting to be a regular muff, 
anyhow.” 

“ Did n’t come off very well at examination, did 
he ?” 

*' Fair ! Got two prizes ; but he had set his 
heart on the whole I believe, and old Huber gave 
him rather a severe rap over the knuckles for fall- 
ing back since the last examination. It mortified 
him dreadfully.” 

“ Bah ! With his father’s wealth what will he 
care for that, in a few years ? I rather like him — 
no nonsense about him.” 

" Well, I do n’t know,” said Walter slowly. “ I 
said the same thing three months ago, but he’s got 
some new crotchets in his head lately. I met him 


TEMPTATION RESISTED. 


71 


in the Park yesterday ; and, by the way, he ’s got as 
pretty a piece of horseflesh as I want to see ; I 
joined him of course and we dined at a restaurant 
rather late. But he would n’t touch the wine.” 

Jack burst out laughing. 

“ It was too funny to watch him getting drunk, 
Meredith. I knew exactly when he would get 
pathetic, and when merry. He is an innocent in- 
fant for a city boy, after all. Kept in the nursery 
too long in his tender youth. So he would not 
touch the wine ?” 

“Not one drop! He said he could not study 
with a headache, and could not take wine without 
incurring that penalty.” 

“ H’m ! Very devoted to study all at once.” 

“Not exactly that! He was always an ambi- 
tious scholar, but he is old enough now to see a 
little life, and I coaled him from his books for 
awhile. But he is determined to make up for lost 
time during the vacation.” 

“ You don’t go back to Huber’s.” 

“No, I’m off-for Harvard next term, if I can’t 
coax your father to send me to Europe instead. 
With a tutor of the right sort, one can have an en- 
joyable trip.” 

“ I know the very man. He went over with Law- 


72 


ALMOST A MAN. 


son, and knows Paris and London as well as I do 
New York. He can keep up your study just 
enough to ease his conscience, but is a thorough 
good fellow.” 

“And your father? You see I ’ve seen very 
little of him, and do n’t know how he will take any 
change in his own plans.” 

" Oh he ’s easily talked over, too busy in his 
office to bother much outside of it. I ’ll start the 
proposition for you !” 

“ All right ! Do n’t I hear Will’s voice on the 
stairs ? And — it is Harry Westbrooke ! Right 
welcome,” Walter added, grasping Harry’s hand, “ I 
was afraid you intended to desert us altogether.” 

Harry colored, for such had really been his in- 
tention, fearful of trusting his new resolutions in 
such an atmosphere of temptation. But he was 
spared the necessity of answering by Will Ray- 
mond, who said, 

“ You may thank me, now. I met Westbrooke 
taking a constitutional, and made him come with 
me. Is n’t it hot ?” 

“Ring the bell for ice, Jack, will you?” said 
Walter; “the rope is just at your hand, so you 
need not rise. I ’ve some tiptop claret cooling in 
the cellar.” 


TEMPTA TION RESISTED. 


73 


“ How is hie , hacy hoc y Harry?” said Jack, with 
a broad pronunciation of the syllables that made 
the name sound like a continuation of the same. 
But Harry laughed pleasantly. 

“Not in flourishing health at last accounts,” he 
answered, “but improving of late.” 

“Do you stay in town this summer?” Jack 
asked. 

“Not decided. Father never leaves the city, 
and my aunt seems to think she must stay with 
him. Of course, I could go alone, but it is stupid.” 

“We’re talking of a trip to the White Moun- 
tains! Six fellows have joined! You’d better 
come !” 

“ I ’ll ask father !” said Harry delighted at this 
prospect, “ how long will you be gone ?” 

“ A month or so, longer if we find it pleasant. 
Here comes your claret and ice, Walt.” 

The servant put the tray upon a table, and 
Walter filled the glasses already half full of cracked 
ice. 

“You’d better,” he said, as Harry shook his 
head ; “ there ’s not a headache in a barrel of it ! 
And it is cooling in this awful weather.” 

“ No, thank you,” was the reply, with a little 
forced laugh, “ my head and legs wont stand wine.” 
10 


Almost A Man. 


74 


A LAWS T A MAN. 


“ They will after you get used to it,” said Will 
Raymond, sipping the claret, “ and claret is not in- 
toxicating.” 

Harry was half inclined to yteld. The drink 
looked deliciously tempting and cool, and he was 
heated with walking ; the half-contemptuous smile 
upon the three faces near him was hard to bear, 
for he was young enough to be keenly sensitive to 
any ridicule; but he had promised his aunt Ellen 
to resist such invitations, and his promise was not 
lightly given, but was meant to be binding. 

So, after one moment of hesitation he filled a 
glass from the pitcher of water, and drank that, 
saying, “ I can drink your good health in this ! 
Now,” rather hastily, “ tell me your plans for this 
White Mountains trip, Jack. You go, Walt?” 

“Yes, Will, Jack, and I, started the plan, and 
Hope, Wiley, and Frankland, joined us. You had 
better do the same. The more the merrier.” 

" When do you start ?” 

“ Tuesday week, so there is ample time to make 
up your mind.” 

An animated discussion of hours, route, and 
plans, followed, the whole programme sounding 
very inviting, with the additional charm of being 
undertaken by young men all sufficiently Harry’s 


TEMPTA TION RESISTED. 


75 


seniors to make him feel flattered by their desire 
to include him in the party. Before he started for 
home, his whole heart was set upon gaining his 
father’s consent to his going with the others. 

It was only a little past ten o’clock when he 
opened the door of the sittingroom, to find Miss 
Westbrooke knitting beside a shaded light. 

In the past four weeks, since the memorable 
examination day, Harry had sought his aunt’s com- 
panionship with true pleasure. The boy heart, that 
had starved for mother love from infancy, was yet 
tender and affectionate, and the affection his aunt 
offered, novel as it was, was very precious. 

Keenly sensitive to all impressions, Harry had 
been drawn very near his aunt by her unobtru- 
sive sympathy when he was suffering the deepest 
mortification at his school failure and his teacher’s 
reproach, and in his first burst of confidence had 
told Aunt Ellen the whole history of his tempta- 
tions and failure. 

It was a delicate matter to hold such confidence 
and so tenderly handle it, that there should be no 
after-regret for its bestowal; but Miss Westbrooke 
in simple love and genuine sympathy did so hold 
it. She urged no confession, she forced no confi- 
dence, but her earnest, sympathizing interest led 


76 


ALMOST A MAN, 


Harry on and on, to such revelations of his life, as 
made her only profoundly grateful he was not far 
worse in all respects than he was. 

There seemed nothing of this earth to have 
saved him, but his own natural refinement and a 
love of study, for upon all sides were the pits and 
snares of wealth, over-indulgence, and a freedom 
from moral restraint, appalling to contemplate. 
Nurses and governesses, taking their tone from 
Mrs. Westbrooke, made appearances their only 
guide, refinement their only standard. 

Well and wisely Miss Westbrooke repaid Har- 
ry’s confidences, by such words of advice and love 
as would lead him to turn his heart to his Saviour. 
It was, therefore, upon a ground already familiar, 
that she listened to the glowing account of the 
summer trip in contemplation. 

“ No ladies, you see, Auntie, so we can leave all 
our fineries at home, and rough it in loose, easy 
dress. No dancing and scraping, such as we had 
at Saratoga and Long Branch, doing the pretty to 
mother’s friends, but just a jolly tramp wherever 
we want to go ! We can hire horses all along 
wherever we want to ride for a few stations, and 
we mean to charter some sort of a vehicle for our 
own exclusive use, once we are among the moun- 


TEMPTATION RESISTED. 


77 


tains. But — ” and the lad’s face fell, “you do not 
approve of it ?” 

“ Is my face such a tell-tale ? Since you have 
so truly read its expression, Harry, I must admit I 
do not like the plan.” 

“Why not?” 

“It brings you into a month’s constant inter- 
course with three young men at least, whose influ- 
ence has not, by your own description of it, been 
of benefit to you.” 

“ But, Auntie, I am not such a baby that they 
can influence me against my better judgment.” 

“ Have they never done so ?” 

“Not since — ” 

There Harry stopped. He had refused to drink 
wine with his friends an hour or two previous, but 
was ashamed, after this point was gained, to refuse 
a game of cards and a cigar. Thoroughly truthful, 
he hesitated, and then said, 

“ I drank nothing this evening ; but I did not 
want to be too straitlaced, and I smoked and 
played. You see, Auntie, one cannot be too strict, 
when others are enjoying themselves.” 

“And so it is better to have associates whose 
enjoyments are not vices.” 

It was the harshest sentence Harry had ever 


73 


ALMOST A MAN. 


heard from his aunt’s gentle lips ; but she felt that 
the time had come to exert to its utmost whatever 
influence she might have gained. 

“Harry,” she said gravely, “ask yourself if you 
are strong enough to resist the temptations that 
will be offered you for an entire month, or to en- 
dure the ridicule that your refusals would bring 
upon you. You have told me of the loose conver- 
sation your companions indulge in, founded upon 
reading books that they must buy secretly and de- 
stroy quickly; of the half-atheistical theories the 
Raymonds advance after a perusal of the works of 
modern scientists ; of the constant indulgence in 
cards, wine, and tobacco. If you hold fast to your 
standard, dear boy, the standard you tell me be- 
comes clearer every day, you must separate your- 
self from your associates and bear their ridicule. 
If you join them in all their pursuits, your standard 
falls, for it will not stand unless held up by an up- 
right hand and a pure heart.” 

“ But, Aunt Ellen, we shall be travelling all the 
time ! Surely I could keep away from the vices 
you fear, when we are in constant motion from 
place to place.” 

“ If it were your duty to go, Harry, even in 
such company, I would say to you, Go, and the 


TEMPTA TION RESISTED. 


79 


Saviour will keep you and make you influential in 
leading others to a better life. But when you vol- 
untarily and willingly place yourself in the way of 
constant intercourse with evil, knowing in your own 
conscience that it is evil, can you -kneel and pray, 
i Lead us not into temptation/ expecting your 
prayer to be answered?” 

Again there was a long silence before Harry 
could answer this question. Prayer to him, coming 
as a* new experience upon his advanced intelligence, 
was not a mere habitual repetition of a form of 
words, as it is to many who have had far more 
religious training than Harry Westbrooke. 

He had faithfully kept his promise to his aunt ; 
had read the Bible she placed upon his table, every 
day, kneeling afterwards to ask the blessing and 
guidance of God. And it would have been con- 
trary to his nature to do either carelessly. The 
holy words of the New Testament had been freight- 
ed with deep significance to his heart, sincerely 
seeking a full knowledge of their teaching, and 
the petition given by Christ to his followers was 
not spoken thoughtlessly, and Harry now felt the 
full significance of his aunt’s question. 

Could he indeed pray to be delivered from evil, 
saved from temptation, when deliberately, with his 


So 


ALMOST A MAN. 


eyes wide open, he walked towards both? For a 
short month his religious aspirations had met 
hearty sympathy from his aunt, and the path of 
rectitude looked smooth and bright before him. 
His enthusiasm had led him to believe he could be 
strong for any sacrifice, to keep his standard erect 
and bright. And behold, at the first cross he 
faltered and looked longingly towards another goal. 

It was a long time before he spoke, conscien- 
tiously weighing his aunt’s question, even asking 
himself if the aim she had set before him was 
worth the sacrifices it demanded, and then, with 
quick shame remembering how much greater sacri- 
fice had been made to give him the opportunity to 
follow in his Saviour’s footsteps. 

At last, with a deep sigh he said, 

“ It is hard to give it up, Auntie.” 

“ But is it not right ?" 

“ I wish I could say there was any doubt about 
it. But you make your case stand out so plain, 
that one cannot hide behind a doubt. I will take 
your advice, and not walk deliberately into tempta- 
tion. I will write to Walter Meredith in the morn- 
ing, and keep out of his way till he goes ; for, even if 
it is boyish and silly, I do n’t like to be laughed at.” 

“ Older people than you are, Harry, are quite as 


TEMP TA TION RESISTED. 8i 

sensitive to ridicule, even if cased in triple armor 
of right and justice. But it is time we went up 
stairs. May God bless you, dear boy, and keep 
you strong in good resolutions. You have made 
me very happy to-night and a most loving kiss 
followed the words. 


Almost a Man. 


11 


82 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE SORROWS OF A NURSERY. 

It was rather a silent party that assembled 
around the breakfast-table the next morning. Mr. 
Westbrooke for some weeks had been abstracted 
and gloomy, not only with the sadness that followed 
the death of his wife, but with some added burden 
that was evidently depressing him. There was not 
yet sufficient cordial sympathy between him and 
his sister, after so many years of separation, for her 
to venture upon any questions, and he offered no 
confidence. 

With Harry, also, his communications had never 
been very free, the one absorbed in business, the 
other, a boy, kept quite apart from both parents 
through the first years of his life. After the one 
confidential conversation with his son on the day 
of Mrs. Westbrooke’s funeral, Mr. Westbrook had 
resumed his natural reticence, and the lad made no 
effort to break through this customary state of 
affairs. 

Upon the morning in question Harry himself 
was very quiet, the regret for his sacrifice strug- 


' THE SORROWS OF A NURSERY. 


83 


gling with his self-approval of his resolution. He 
was but a boy after all, and one little accustomed 
to sslf-denial, and his inclination still leaned to the 
party of pleasure, although he would not have 
thought of breaking his word passed to his aunt. 

But the voice that was most missed was not the 
grave accents of Mr. Westbrooke, his sister’s sweet 
tones, or Harry’s cheerful chat, but the silvery tre- 
ble of Etta, which usually filled every interval of 
graver conversation. The child was deeply attached 
to her auntie, and always glad to be with her, while 
Mr. Westbrooke, with whom intercourse with a 
child was a new experience, gave a worshipping 
love to the golden-haired darling, and was happier 
in petting her than in any other hour of his busy, 
careworn existence. 

But on this August morning, when the sultry 
air hung like a furnace-breath over the great city, 
little Etta sat very silent, scarcely tasting the food 
Miss Westbrooke put upon her plate, and drooping 
her pretty head in most unusual fashion. Not 
until her father rose from the table and bent over 
his little daughter for a farewell kiss, did he notice 
the child’s pale cheeks and heavy eyes. Then very 
lovingly he said, 

“ Are you sick, darling ?” 


8 4 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“ Vewy sick !” the little one said, lifting her 
tiny hand pathetically to her head ; “ dot a bad 
pain in all my turls.” 

“A pain in your curls ?” 

“’Ess, and ’e bekfus don’t taste dood.” 

“She does not look well, Ellen,” Mr. West- 
brooke said quickly. “ I will send Dr. Lewis over.” 

He lifted Etta from her high chair as he spoke, 
and after tenderly kissing her hot cheeks, put her 
in Miss Westbrooke’s extended arms, where she 
nestled down in perfect content, her headache 
already soothed by the tender, caressing hand 
among her curls. 

“Do you think she is really sick, Auntie?” 
Harry said, kneeling down to bring his face upon 
the same level as his little sister’s. 

“ She is certainly feverish,” said Miss West- 
brooke, “but it may be the heat. You are not 
accustomed to remain in the city, are you ?” 

“ No, we never have done so. Etta dear.” 

“ ’Ess, brover Hawwy,” the child replied, putting 
out her little hand to the big brother who loved her 
very dearly, and towards whom she felt that idol- 
izing attachment often seen in very young children 
towards older brothers or sisters. 

“ Does your head ache very badly, darling ?” 



si 




THE SORROWS OF A NURSERY. 85 

“ ’Ess, all in Etta’s turls it ache, and she ’s vewy 
hot.” 

Miss Westbrooke was surprised to see how pale 
Harry grew, and how strong a fear sprang into his 
eyes ; but presently he said in a choking voice, 
“ My little brothers and sisters all drooped just so, 
Auntie. You know how many — ” and there his 
voice failed entirely. 

It brought back very vividly to Miss West- 
brooke’s mind the letters that had brought her 
tidings of the loss of one and another of her broth- 
er’s children, and it touched her deeply as she for 
the first time realized what their loss must have been 
to this oldest child, deprived of his companions, one 
after the other, in those tender years when love was 
an instinct. 

“ I never had any one to talk to about them,” 
Harry said presently, seeing that Etta, soothed by 
her aunt’s caressing hand, had fallen asleep in her 
arms, “and nobody ever seemed to think I cared. 
My nurses always comforted me by telling me the 
playthings were all my own ; and my mother never 
noticed me much after she had ordered a crape band 
for my hat. But it was dreadful. I loved them so 
much, even the tiny baby that I can scarcely re- 
member, who was next to me and only lived nine 


86 


ALMOST A MAN. 


months. I used to hide in her cradle to cry, and 
beg her to come back again. We were lonesome in 
the nursery, because we were never allowed to make 
any noise, and I did not go to school till I was quite 
a big boy. I had one little brother, Charlie, and I 
was eight years old when he was born. We had 
not had a baby in the nursery for a long time, and 
when he came I could never tire of holding him 
and playing with him. He had long yellow curls 
like Etta’s, but his eyes were brown. I did love 
him so much, and he was as fond of me. And just 
when he was the very sweetest, talking baby-talk 
and calling me ‘brover Hawwy/ just as Etta does, 
he took scarlet-fever. I had it too, awfully, and 
when I was just getting well, they told me Charlie 
was dead. We had an old nurse then, Nancy, and 
I can remember how she grieved over my loneliness. 
She used to call me a ‘ poor little forlornity,’ and I 
was forlorn enough. I know I used to cry, big boy 
as I was, to go to Greenwood and read the names 
on the gravestones, because I had a sort of hope 
that the other children knew I had not forgotten 
them, and loved them still. And I had not forgot- 
ten Charlie, but mourned with all my childish heart 
for him when Etta came. I was a big boy then, 
out of the nursery, and yet I used to spend hours 


THE SORROWS OF A NURSERY. 


87 


there just to hold her in my arms. She is so sweet, 
Auntie, and the only one left, and now — ” 

Never before had Harry sought sympathy for 
these griefs of his childhood, deeper because they 
were borne so silently ; and all the pain seemed re- 
newed when he looked at the flushed face of this 
baby sister, who had represented to him all the lit- 
tle ones, whose brief lives had been so precious to 
him, whose loss had been so deeply felt. 

Miss Westbrooke had already been profoundly 
stirred by the starved affections of her young 
nephew. Domestic life in her brother’s home had 
been so strangely cold and formal to her, that she 
had never dreamed of the existence of this child-love 
in the nursery, this yearning boy-heart reaching out 
towards the little ones whose short lives and early 
deaths had seemed but trifling episodes in their 
parents’ existence. 

“ Harry dear,” she said, her own sweet voice 
trembling with emotion, “ is it not better to think 
of those dear babes safe in a tender Saviour’s arms, 
than exposed to all the temptations and trials of 
this life ?” 

“ But no one told me that,” the boy answered, 
looking up. “ I only thought of them lying in the 
cold grave, away from me.” 


88 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“But now, now that you can think of a loving 
Jesus, who calls little children to come to him, who 
loves them with deeper, purer love than ever filled 
a human heart, does it not make you feel nearer to 
heaven to know Charlie is there ?” 

“ I do n’t know. I never thought of heaven as 
you do, Auntie ; you seem almost to have been 
there, you are so sure of it. But I — I cannot real- 
ize that future life of which I have thought so lit- 
tle. I think it will break my heart if Etta dies.” 

“We will hope she is not so very ill as that, 
deaf,” was the tender reply. “It may be only a 
feverish attack, and she will be well again in a few 
days.” 

But Harry’s fears were stronger than his hopes. 
The drooping of the babes he loved in the neglected 
nursery had left a yivid impression upon a heart 
that, having little to love, had loved that little with 
a concentrated affection beyond his years. More 
vividly than he had done since Etta was born, did 
he recall Charlie’s fever-flushed face lying against 
the nurse’s breast, the delirious fancies, the heavy 
stupor, and last of all the marble pallor, and the 
quiet no cries and tears of his could break. 

He lifted Etta tenderly and carried her to his 
aunt’s room, moving restlessly about while Miss 


THE SORROWS OF A NURSERY. 89 

Westbrooke undressed the child and put her upon 
her own bed. 

“ Whether she is very ill, or only suffering from 
some childish ailment easily cured, we will not 
trust her to hired care, Harry,” his aunt said lov-* 
ingly. “You shall help nurse her, if you will, and 
you may trust me to give her all loving attention.” 

“I am sure of that,” was the grateful reply. 
“ You are surely our good angel, Auntie.” 

The doctor came early in the day, and looked 
very grave. 

“ The children all inherit a delicate constitution 
from their mother,” he told Miss Westbrooke, 
“and a severe illness goes hard with them. Harry 
is the only one, as I suppose you know, who 
reached the fifth year.” 

“You think Etta dangerously ill?” 

“No, but she has a high fever, and there is 
danger to the brain. My first prescription would 
be the sea-air. But I would not advise you to 
go far from home. I will speak to Mr. Westbrooke.” 

Leaving minute directions, the doctor promised 
to call again at the hour when Mr. Westbrooke 
came home to dinner, and left the house, not aware 
of the effect of his words upon Harry. 

It was pitiful to see how he hung over the sick 
12 


Almost a Man. 


9o 


ALMOST A MAN. 


child, watching every breath, stilling his steps and 
voice that he might not disturb her. 

Far Rockaway was decided upon as the best 
place for a few weeks’ sojourn, the sea-air being 
attainable, while it would be easy to summon Mr. 
Westbrooke or the doctor in case of necessity. 
Before night the father had telegraphed to the ho- 
tel, engaged front rooms, and made arrangements 
for removal the next day. Harry was to go with 
his aunt and sister, and was proud of his father’s 
few but emphatic words at parting. 

“You must take my place, my son,” Mr. West- 
brooke said, “for I cannot leave my business even 
for a day, at present. . But you can see that your 
aunt is comfortable, and that your sister has all she 
requires. You are such a manly boy that I do not 
feel any hesitation in trusting them to your care, 
nor — ” and the father’s voice faltered, “ in leaving 
it to your judgment to send for me, if you think 
there is any greater danger. We have had many 
sore partings, Harry !” 

And Harry feeling nearer his father in those 
few words, than he had ever done in his life before, 
could only say, “You may trust me, father!” and 
accepted the charge laid upon him, with an earn- 
est wish to do his duty faithfully, 


THE SORROWS OF A NURSERY. 


9i 


It was a very drooping child that lay in Aunt 
Ellen’s arms in the open barouche that drove to 
the Rockaway boat, and took a place upon the 
lower deck there. But even before the destination 
of the small party was reached, the bracing sea-air 
had revived the little invalid. She sat up, and 
looked languidly at the water, glittering in the 
bright sunlight, and laughed gleefully at Harry’s 
promises of scampers by the seaside, and. treasures 
of shells to be found in the sand. 

But she did not care to leave the carriage, even 
to sit with her brother near the guards of the boat, 
and was soon drowsy again. Still, both brother 
and aunt felt new hope, when they were comforta- 
bly settled in their new quarters, and Etta, lying 
upon an easy lounge, was evidently less feverish 
and brighter. 

But the next day, and for many days, the fever 
raged fiercely and Dr. Lewis, coming every other 
day, looked very grave and spoke without many 
words of encouragement. Mr. Westbrooke com- 
ing in the last afternoon boat, and returning in 
the first morning one, was gloomy and despondent, 
but Harry, full of bitter grief, was also feeling a 
comfort he had never known before, in loving sym- 
pathy and Christian words of hope. 


92 


ALMOST A MAN. 


As he had said, the loss of the other children 
had been to him the crushing sorrow of total be- 
reavement ; but Miss Westbrooke, by her words of 
strengthening faith, was sanctifying that past bitter- 
ness, and drawing the sting from this present fear. 
The little coffined forms that had haunted the 
boy’s dreams, and filled his heart with a sense of 
desolation, became angel visions, as his aunt talked 
of them, and read to him the precious promises for 
children in the Holy Scriptures. Although his 
own life had known no physical hardships, it be- 
came a comfort to him to think of the tender little 
feet that were saved from any of life’s rough paths, 
and safe to all eternity. 

“ It makes heaven seem very near, Auntie,” he 
said one day, “ to think of Charlie there, waiting for 
me. I never thought much about dying, but it 
seems now, as if it would be easier to go from earth, 
if those we love wait for us in heaven.” 

“ And One whom we should love still more ten- 
derly than any earthly friend calls us to him,” Miss 
Westbrooke said. 

She was often surprised at the child-like faith 
with which Harry accepted all her instructions and 
his own Bible reading. His conversation upon 
other matters proved him to have an intellect de- 


THE SORROWS OF A NURSERY. 


93 


veloped beyond that of most boys of his age, his 
mind having been nourished at the expense of his 
heart. But he never was anxious to argue upon 
religious topics, as he was upon many others ; never 
desirous of putting the words of promise to any test 
of reasoning, as he would many other theories of 
which he read or heard. It seemed as if, young as 
he was, he rested in this new life of love and trust 
in God just opened to him, as really as many way- 
worn pilgrims who come to the haven only after 
years of doubt and struggle. 

Something to love he had craved from his cra- 
dle, and gradually, in those quiet summer days, 
while he watched his baby sister, and listened to 
his aunt’s sweet voice, his heart was drawn closer 
and closer to the love of Christ that death cannot 
take away, that earthly sorrow cannot sever. 

He could pray for Etta, not merely watch with 
blind terror as he had watched Charlie ; and his 
petitions comforted him, even when there was such 
pressing danger, that the prayer for strength to 
bear separation was more frequent than pleading 
for the tender life to be spared. 

But, after two weeks of suffering the child be- 
gan to brighten, the doctor came less frequently, 
Mr. Westbrooke ceased his daily visits, and Harry 


9 \ 


ALMOST A MAN. 


felt his heart filled with gratitude, as the danger 
seemed to be over. He devoted himself entirely 
to the child, walking with her as she grew stronger, 
planning amusements for her, reading little stories 
out of some child’s books Mr. Westbrooke sent 
down to help pass the time, and delighting to hear 
her merry laugh ring out once more, and see the 
pretty rose tints coming again to her thin cheeks. 

Only when his sister slept did he take out his 
long-neglected books, and apply himself diligently 
to his studies. For September was very near when 
Etta began to recover, and on the 15 th he would 
again enter the Academy. 


HOME AGAIN. 


95 


CHAPTER - VIII. 

HOME AGAIN. 

“ Etta very sorry,” was the child’s comment 
when told the seaside visit must soon end, and a 
return to the city take place in a few days. “ Etta 
likes the water, and the shells, and all the fings here.” 

“ But you like your dollies and -toys too, do n’t 
you ?” said Harry, “and you want to see Margaret 
and Jeannette.” 

“I like auntie and you better ’n Margy and 
Jeannette,” said Etta decidedly, having, baby as she 
was, realized the difference between the loving de- 
votion given to her in the last few weeks, and the 
hired care of her fine nursery. 

“ Poor child !” Harry said lovingly, “ I know 
what it is to be alone in the great nursery.” 

“ But,” said Miss Westbrooke kindly, “ you need 
not fear that Etta will be left entirely to Margaret. 
I shall ask your father’s permission to dismiss 
Jeannette, for I find Etta has learned some words 
that would translate into what plain-spoken people 
call swearing.” 

“Auntie !” 


96 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“ Quite true. For example, you would scarcely 
like to hear your sister’s baby lips say, ‘ My God !’ 
but more than once I have seen her little hands 
clasped dramatically, in perfect imitation of Jean- 
nette’s, while she exclaimed, * Mon Dieu,’ most 
tragically. A minor evil is, that the French she is 
hearing is strongly provincial and ungrammatical. 
IE she learns the language from Jeannette, she will 
have a great deal to unlearn before she. ever can 
speak French with well-educated people.” 

“ I am glad I did not have a French nurse then, 
though poor mamma was always sorry for that 
omission. My governess grounded me well in the 
rules, but I was eight years old before I took a 
lesson.” 

“Do n’t ’ike Fwench,” said Etta, “and Jean- 
nette slaps Etta when she do n’t know what she is 
telling her to do. P’ease, brother Harry, take Etta 
to walk.” 

This request Harry granted at once, leaving 
Miss Westbrooke to pack, and carefully put into 
the trunks the treasures of shells and sea-weeds 
that Etta had enjoyed as playthings more than the 
entire contents of her costly cabinet. More than 
one tear fell upon the baby possessions ; for, 
although little accustomed to children, the kind 


HOME AGAIN. 


97 


aunt knew that Etta was a very delicate, frail child, 
with all her naturally weak constitution still further 
enervated by the hothouse life she had led, stifled 
in a nursery, and breathing the pure air only in a 
carriage, or walking demurely by the side of a 
French maid. The bounding step of a free, happy 
child, the tendency to noisy play, had been curbed 
in Mrs. Westbrooke’s children, and illy replaced by 
a precocious decorum and the slender figures and 
pure complexions of delicate little ladies and gentle- 
men. Even Harry, who had passed safely through 
the perilous sicknesses of childhood, was not robust, 
although he enjoyed good health. 

The weeks of sea-air and freedom had given to 
his eyes a new brightness, and he was surprised to 
find how much more clear and active his mind was, 
after the early hours, simple diet, and constant 
outdoor exercise of his sojourn at Rockaway. 
Summer trips, before this, had been but a training 
in society, Mrs. Westbrooke requiring of Harry, as 
her companion, all the courteous attention she 
required from any gentleman who was her escort, 
and entirely forbidding any of the noisy games or 
rough play indulged in by other boys of his own 
age, even in the fashionable hotels where they 
lived. And Harry himself, not being very strong, 
13 


Almost a Man. 


98 


ALMOST A MAN. 


and naturally of a quiet, studious disposition, had 
submitted more willingly than a more active boy 
would have done, to such restraint. 

“ It ’ll be awful lonesome at home,” Etta sighed, 
as after a short walk she rested in Harry’s arms on 
the broad piazza of the hotel ; “ you ’ll be away all 
the time.” 

“ Oh, no ; I am only in school till two o’clock, 
and we can have a walk every afternoon, Etta.” 

“ Can we, Hawwy ?” and the baby-voice sank to 
a whisper of happy confidence. “ I ’se doing to 
s’eep wiv auntie all the time when we do back, 
same’s I do now.” 

“ That will be famous,” was the cordial reply, as 
Harry gratefully thought how much easier he would 
feel about his little sister, knowing she was in such 
loving care at night. 

“ ’Ess, and she tells me ’tories, booful ’tories, 
Hawwy ; all about heaven and the angels, that love 
Etta same ’s ’oo does.” 

The boy’s arms clasped the little figure closer. 
Not yet could he think even angel love as strong 
and tender as his o\yn. 

“ Etta finks,” said the child gravely, “that more 
angels lives here than in New York.” 

“ Why do you think so, Etta ?” 


HOME AGAIN. 


99 


“ ’Cause, the sky is so big, and Etta can see 
way up, way up, most into heaven. And some- 
times Etta sees the angels, whole lots of ’em, flying 
along. There’s some now !” she cried, pointing to 
a large, fleecy white cloud slowly sailing across the 
deep blue beyond. And Harry, easily seeing how 
a childish fancy could see a group of white-winged 
angels there, did not contradict his sister. 

“ Some day,” she said, “ they ’ll all fly down 
here, and take Etta in their arms, same ’s ’oo does 
when Etta is tired, and carry her way up in the 
booful heaven ! Oh,” sighed the child wearily, “ it 
is all booful, like here, auntie says, and ’oo can 
come too.” 

Harry’s lips softly pressed the prattling ones, to 
stop the prophecy that was so deeply painful to 
him. Even to the angels, even to enter the bright, 
beautiful heaven, he could' not willingly give Etta 
up, though he feared she would follow those other 
little ones he had mourned so deeply. 

“ O God,” he said in his heart, “ spare her to 
us ; let her live to help me to be thy servant.” 

For, looking at the pure, sweet face, with his 
heart so newly impressed by holy teachings, the 
lad felt it would strengthen him in all good resolu- 
tions, to know this dear sister would soon look to. 


loo 


ALMOST A MAN. 


him for advice and guidance. A few months ago 
he would have been a stranger to any such thought- 
ful love. Satisfied with the routine in which he 
had been educated, he carelessly supposed older 
heads controlled Etta’s life. But he was learning 
to carry every thought and act to the highest test of 
motive, and he knew he could take from Etta’s life 
some of the bitterness of his own childhood. 

“ She shall never grow up so forlorn as I was,” 
he thought, “ and know nothing of her Saviour till 
she is almost a woman. God helping me, I will 
give her a stronger staff to lean upon than lady- 
like deportment and handsome dress.” 

Presently Etta spoke again, bewailing the ne- 
cessity of a return to the city, and telling Harry 
the many baby-sorrows he understood well. Jean- 
nette was evidently ill-tempered and rough, when 
alone with Etta; but the child seemed fond of 
Margaret, although highly delighted at the pros- 
pect of having her crib taken into Miss West- 
brooke’s room. Margaret slept heavily, and Etta 
was often restless, and made Plarry’s heart ache as 
she told him of the hot nights when she was so 
“ firsty, and Margy ’oold n’t wake up and dive me a 
dwink, and I was fwaid to dit up ’cause a mouse 
’ood nibble my toes,” 


HOME AGAIN. 


IOI 


Jeannette had a nursery bugaboo, too, that Etta 
believed lurked in the closet to spring out upon lit- 
tle girls who woke up at unseasonable hours ; and 
the poor child had evidently suffered many hours 
of misery tossing with thirst, afraid to get up for 
water, and unable to waken the weary nurse. Ev- 
ery restless desire of childhood had been curbed, 
till it was only wonderful that there was even so 
much power left in the slender arms and legs, the 
tiny fingers and feet. 

They were far too quiet now, needing no check 
from older people to rest passive for hours, not tied 
in nursery chairs, but held in loving arms, while the 
picture-books or quiet toys were replaced by sweet 
voices telling child stories, or winning the baby- 
heart to think of a higher, happier world than the 
one around her. 

It had never occurred to Harry to interfere in 
any of the domestic arrangements of his splendid 
home ; but listening to Etta relating her baby trials, 
he resolved to follow up his aunt’s suggestion to 
dismiss Jeannette, by all the eloquence at his com- 
mand. Even without regarding it as a sin, he had 
always regarded profanity with fastidious disgust, 
and the thought of an oath on Etta’s lips in any 
language gave him a feeling of horror, while yet he 



V 

ALMOSyf A A/A 





* 


could readily understand how easily such a habit 
could be indulged in with the sounds familiar from 
a nurse’s lips. And the baby prattle was revealing 
that Margaret’s superstitious and vulgar words were 
only of secondary importance when compared with 
actual profane language. 

The lad was old enough, and had thought and 
read enough upon subjects in advance of his years, 
to think as he listened, “ If ever I marry and have 
children, their nursery shall be their mother’s room, 
and no hired hands or voices shall have uncontrolled 
care of their baby lives. And yet, it does not seem 
to me .as if any of the pretty girls I know, who are so 
daintily dressed and so pleasant to talk to, would 
ever be like Aunt Ellen, or care to he bothered with 
nursery duties. I wonder where rich men look for 
good wives !” and then he burst into a laugh, real- 
izing the absurdity of such speculations at seven- 
teen. It was a keen pain that followed a moment 
later at the oft-recurring thought, “ My beautiful 
mother never could have really loved us very much. 
But how lovely she was !” For the memory would 
ever live in Harry’s heart of the exquisite beauty of 
that young mother, whom he seldom saw except in 
costly and becoming attire — a very fairy vision in 
his boyish eyes. He had loved her as heathens 




HOME AGAIN. 


103 


love some gorgeous idol they may never touch, but' 
worship afar off more in awe than in affection. Her 
caresses, rarely given, had been accepted as favors 
that would be withdrawn if any rude movement dis- 
turbed a ruffle or a curl. No good, boyish hugs, no 
sobbing, childish petitions for kisses to cure a hurt 
spot, no hours of cuddling in tender embrace, repre- 
sented mother-love to Harry, but kisses seldom be- 
stowed, with every care for the preservation of a 
faultless dress, and an occasional gentle pat upon 
the shoulder, or word of affection. 

Even from his father the boy had received more 
hearty caresses, though but seldom bestowed, Mr. 
Westbrooke being far more impressed with the duty 
of keeping up a gorgeous establishment than that 
of being a true father to his son. 

Etta, easily wearied after her illness, was fast 
asleep in her brother’s arms when Miss Westbrooke, 
seeing her from the window, came with a large 
warm shawl to wrap about her. “It might be dan- 
gerous to have her chilled,” she said, “ and though 
the day is not cold, the ocean air is keen.” 

“ Is she better, Auntie ?” Harry said in a plead- 
ing tone, that moved his aunt deeply. 

“ Much better certainly than she was a week 
ago even. But she will need watchful care all win- 


104 


ALMOST A MAN. 


ter, I fear. She was never very strong, Dr. Lewis 
tells me.” 

“ I do not think she was ever very sick before. 
She has had none of the sicknesses I had — scar- 
let-fever, whooping-cough, measles, and all the 
rest.” 

“ No, but she has been kept in the house a great 
deal. I wish I could take her to Fairhaven for a 
year or two. Country air and country fare are the 
best of all medicines for little folks. If your father 
should be willing, Harry, would you let her go ?” 

“ And you ?” 

The boy’s tone of dismay was the highest com- 
pliment he could have paid his aunt, and it was per- 
fectly sincere. Aunt Ellen and Etta taken from 
him ! Could misfortune go much farther ? 

“ I should have to go certainly ; but I will say 
no more about it, if you need me, Harry.” 

“We all need you !” 

“ Scarcely, dear. Your father’s housekeeper is 
thoroughly conversant with her duties, and resents 
any interference on my part, and you could still be 
your father’s companion. But Etta, I fear, will 
never be strong in the city. I confess that the 
thought of taking her home with me did not occur 
to me till Dr. Lewis suggested the possibility. He 


HOME AGAIN. 


105 


said New York air was poison to the child, and he 
wished she could spend one or two years in the 
country.” 

“To save her life ?” the boy asked slowly. 

“ With that hope.” 

Harry bent his face down over the pale sleeping 
one pillowed upon his breast, and hot tears rolled 
slowly down his cheeks before he lifted it again, 
and looked out upon the water rolling in with mo- 
notonous music so near him. He saw nothing of 
the white-capped waves breaking almost at his feet ; 
he heard nothing of the merry voices of the bathers. 
Through a mist of tears he seemed to see Etta, 
white and still, her baby voice silenced in death, her 
blue eyes closed in the final sleep. And to save her 
he must let her go from him, and lose with her the 
gentle friend and teacher who was so tenderly gui- 
ding him to a purer, higher life than he had ever 
led. 

It was a long time before he could trust his voice 
to speak, and Miss Westbrooke, watching him, was 
sadly perplexed by doubts about her duty. Was 
even the saving of Etta’s life a sufficient reason for 
leaving this young heart once more alone in its 
temptations and struggles ? Then, very humbly, 
she remembered that Harry could never again be 
14 


Almost a Man. 


io6 


ALMOST A MAN. 


alone, having once found the Guide and Comforter. 
And her duty seemed plainer, realizing the fact 
that Harry had grasped holy truths and teachings 
so lovingly and strongly. Presently he said, still 
looking straight before him, and controlling his 
voice by a strong effort, “No sacrifice can be too 
great to make for Etta’s sake. But I shall miss 
you terribly.” 

“And I shall miss you, Harry. You have given 
me the pleasantest hours I have had since I left 
home. But we may be tormenting ourselves for 
nothing, as your father may perhaps object to fol- 
lowing the doctor’s advice.” 

Harry would not accept that doubtful comfort. 
“ Father loves Etta far too well to object to any 
plan that will benefit her,” he said. 

“ He may allow you to accompany us.” 

“ It would not be right for me to go,” was the 
.quiet reply. “ He would be entirely alone, and I 
know he likes to have me in the room with him, 
although he never talks much to me. We may get 
better acquainted,” Harry added with a sad smile, 
“ when we are together more. I should like to feel 
myself of any use to him. You know I am to be 
his partner after I come of age.” 

“ I heard something of it.” 


HOME AGAEV. 


107 

" He told me some months ago, and has often 
referred to it since. He wants me to finish my 
college course first. O Auntie, I am afraid I can- 
not keep straight without you.” 

“You have a better Friend than I can be, Har- 
ry, if you will seek him ; one who can be ever near 
you, and is never deaf to the calls of his children.” 

“ But I know him so little, and there are so 
many little sins coming every day to tempt me. I 
can never tell half of them.” 

“ But Christ can deliver from the love and power 
of all, Harry.” 

“ All ? So many are trifling, so many seem 
like positive social duties,” said the lad, who had 
been weighing his many faults with the severe jus- 
tice very often found in a newly-awakened con- 
science. 

“Have you ever gone to your father for ad- 
vice ?” 

“ Never !” 

“ In any real difficulty you had better do so.” 
Miss Westbrooke spoke slowly, giving the advice 
after much painful thought, prayerfully hoping that 
the responsibility of guiding this young life would 
recall to her brother the Christian teachings of his 
own father, sadly obscured and clouded by a long 


io8 


ALMOST A MAN, 


life spent in piling dollar upon dollar, without 
thought of that future existence where no wealth 
can purchase happiness. 

“ Henry certainly loves his children,” Miss 
Westbrooke thought, “ and he cannot advise Harry 
without pausing to think of the effect of his words. 
It may be, when they are alone together they will 
understand each other better, and mutually influ- 
ence their lives for higher aims than business or 
money-making.” 

“Are you homesick, Auntie ?” Harry asked 
presently. 

“ No, dear.” 

“ I think you must sometimes long for the quiet 
and peace of the country, especially in the sum- 
mer.” 

“ I think,” was the quiet answer, “ my health 
would soon suffer in the city. But if my duty lay 
there, I should never be homesick.” 

“ Duty is your watchword.” 

“As it will be yours, I hope, Harry. As it 
should be the watchword of every Christian. But 
we must go in, dear. The boat will be here in an 
hour, and Etta must have some dinner. Your fa- 
ther will send the carriage on the boat, and perhaps 
come himself.” 


HOME AGAEV. 


log 


But the carriage came without its owner, and 
the little party returned to New York under Har- 
ry’s escort only, arriving at the door of their home 
just as Mr. Westbrooke, paler and gloomier than 
ever, came up the steps to dinner. 


10 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER IX. 

FOR ETTA'S SAKE. 

The first interview with Dr. Lewis, after the 
return of the Westbrookes from Rockaway, only re- 
sulted in his repeating most urgently the advice to 
remove the . little patient as speedily as possible 
from the city air and the warm nursery. 

“ I think in pure country air, with plain food 
and such care as you have already given her, she 
will recover her health, and lay the foundation for 
more strength than she has ever had,” he said to 
MisS Westbrooke ; “ but my experience of child life 
in this house gives me very little hope for her if 
she remains here.” 

“ But,” Miss Westbrooke said, thinking of Har- 
ry, “ she would not be left to hired nurses again.” 

“A great gain, no doubt, but the mischief is 
done. She has spent more than four years like an 
exotic, and you understand must take freedom and 
fresh air very gradually and carefully at first. But, 
so taking it, well-protected against cold, and not 
exposed to noonday heat in summer, I believe it will 
save her.” 


FOR ETTA'S SAKE. hi 

After that conversation, Miss Westbrooke had 
no further hesitation in the matter. Her own duty 
lay plain before her, and she spoke to her brother 
as soon as he returned to the house from his daily 
business. It was an easy task to win his consent 
to the proposed plan, and Miss Westbrooke was 
surprised to notice a certain expression of relief 
upon his face, as he said, “ I think, Ellen, I will 
break up the whole establishment after you are 
gone. The house will need a mistress, and is far 
too large for Harry and myself. We will get a 
pleasant boarding-house and trust Etta entirely to 
you. And in view of that, will you take with you all 
of Louisa’s personal property ? You will know best 
what will be useful to Etta and to yourself. I leave 
it all to you. Everything belonging to Etta you 
will take, of course, and if you need anything more, 
let me know.” 

He turned to go as he spoke, but his sister 
spoke pleadingly. “ Henry,” she said, putting her 
hand on his, “ Harry will have no one but you when 
we are gone.” 

“ Oh, he will do very well. He will not leave 
the Academy for the present.” • 

“ He is a noble boy, Henry.” 

“Yes!” said the gratified father. " Harry is a 


1 1 2 


ALMOST A MAN. 


fine fellow, courteous and manly, and well ad- 
vanced in his studies. I look forward to a noble 
career for Harry, unless — ” and his face fell, while 
he was evidently restlessly desirous of ending the 
conversation. 

But the gently restraining hand held him, while 
Miss Westbrooke said, “ When you are his cnly ad- 
viser, Henry, will you not remember our own fa- 
ther’s teachings ?” 

“ Well, you see, Ellen, the world has changed 
.in sixty years, and Harry’s life will not be likely to 
be that of a country farmer, no matter what hap- 
pens.” 

“ There are principles to be inculcated, and 
truths to be impressed, Henry, that will apply as 
well to the city merchant as to the country farmer.” 

“ Oh, you mean religious matters ! That will 
come soon enough. I do n’t want to see a boy of 
seventeen too religious.” 

“ Nor do I,” was the answer, “but surely, Hen- 
ry, you want to see him a Christian man.” 

“ Oh, yes, of course. I ’ll take him to church 
when I have time, and — and — well, as I said, there 
is time enough. I really cannot stay to talk any 
longer, Ellen. I have important letters to write. 
Do n’t forget what I said about Louisa’s and Etta’s 


FOR ETTA'S SAKE. 


1 13 

things. You will find all the keys in the upper 
drawer of my bureau, and I leave everything to 
your own judgment. Make your own selections.” 

Then he hurried away, glad to escape any fur- 
ther stirring of the conscience he had lulled for so 
many long years. What possessed Ellen to talk of 
his father ? He had letters to write, letters of im- 
portance, and yet he sat in his library, with the pen 
and paper before him, picturing that country home 
where he had last seen his father. He was just six- 
teen on that day, younger than Harry ; but his 
father was not an old man, as he was to-day, but a 
tall, stalwart farmer, not forty years old, with curl- 
ing brown hair and teeth white as milk. He saw 
again the homely kitchen, his mother quietly crying 
in a corner, his little sister wide-eyed and curious, 
and his father holding him fast by both hands 
while he spoke earnest words of counsel and bles- 
sing. Years ago he had let the crust of worldli- 
ness cover those parting words, but vivid and clear 
they recurred to him : “ May God guide your steps 
in the great city, my son ! May he prosper you, 
protect you, and keep your heart pure in his ser- 
vice !” 

Had the prayer been answered ? Henry West- 
brooke had prospered greatly in worldly matters, 

15 


Almost a Han. 


ALMOST A MAN. 


1 r 4 


and had been kept from positive vice by the strong 
desire to amass wealth. He had been too eco- 
nomical to spend hard-earned savings in pleasure- 
seeking ; had been too cautious to gamble, too de- 
sirous to keep a clear head and steady brain to 
drink. Morally, he stood well in the community; 
a man of known integrity, of spotless reputation. 
But was his heart pure in God’s sendee ? What 
service had he offered in fifty years ? What had he 
done in Christ’s name in his long prosperous life ? 

Some ostentatious charities knew him as a lib- 
eral contributor to their funds ; some few times in 
the course of a year he went to church, for the 
sake of appearance, and when there usually thought 
deeply upon any business scheme under considera- 
tion. 

God’s service ! Truly, for fifty years he had for- 
gotten he owed any to the Divine Being who gave 
him all the good things his heart desired. And he 
was not pleased at this sudden thrust made at his 
long quiet conscience. Surely with his recent 
widowhood, Etta’s state of health, and other mat- 
ters he did not define even in thought, he was suf- 
ficiently troubled without worrying about that long 
past prayer of his dead father’s. 

He had done his duty to his family, after his 








FOR ETTA'S SAFE. 


ii 


mother was widowed, sending her money hardly 
earned in those days, and many comforts for her 
declining years. And he had settled upon Ellen 
years before a securely invested sum of money, 
quite out of his power ever to recall or touch. The 
first comfort of this hour of meditation lay in that 
thought. Ellen’s little fortune was secure and en- 
tirely under her own control ! The dinner-bell 
sounded, and no letter was yet written, but there 
was an added weariness upon Mr. Westbrooke’s 
face, which his son and sister wrongly attributed 
to anxiety about Etta. 

Busy days followed, for the selecting and pack- 
ing of Mrs. Westbrooke’s and Etta’s possessions 
was no trifling task, especially as Etta herself re- 
quired a great deal of attention. The days were 
still very hot and close, and the child drooped so 
decidedly that Dr. Lewis urged haste in leaving 
the city, whenever he called. Harry, controlling 
his own grief for the sake of the little sister he so 
dearly loved, gave most efficient aid in both nursing 
and packing, whenever he was able to be released 
from school studies and exercises. 

Many long conversations he was never to forget 
he had with his aunt Ellen, while he held Etta in 
in his arms, fanning and rocking her, and Miss 


i6 


ALMOST A MAN. 


Westbrooke sorted and folded, while Margaret and 
Jeannette packed the great Saratoga trunks that 
were to go to Fairhaven. Even Harry, accustomed 
as he was to his mother’s luxurious dress and hab- 
its, wondered at the number and variety of dresses 
and jewels that were taken out to pack. 

“Your father insists upon my taking them,” 
Miss Westbrooke said, “though it is difficult to 
imagine what use I can ever make of them for 
Etta, for many years at any rate. I intend to in- 
troduce her to easy plain dresses, that will bear 
active country exercise, as soon as she is strong 
enough to run.” 

“ And ap’ons for corn for the chickies !” said 
Etta, looking up. 

“Yes, darling, aprons for corn for the chick- 
ens !” said Miss Westbrooke ; “ they will soon learn 
to love little Etta, when she feeds them.” 

“ Live pets !” said Harry, smiling, “ how I 
teased and cried for them ; but they were too dirty, 
too noisy, too troublesome, and even a canary-bird 
was denied me, because it woke my nurse too early 
in the morning.” 

“ Pets are troublesome in the city ; but I think 
they form the great delight of country children,” 
said Miss Westbrooke. " I cannot remember one 


FOR ETTA'S SAKE. 


n7 

hour of my life when I did not have pets, and al- 
ways one especial favorite. A snow white calf 
with a black star on her forehead was my darling 
for years after she became a motherly old cow, and 
would allow no one but myself to milk her. She 
died at last, of sheer old age, for I would never 
have her killed. When I left home, two white 
kittens were the latest pets, but they must be well 
grown by this time.” 

“Etta likes kitties,” said Etta, whose only ac- 
quaintance with kittens was a great admiration of 
their pictures in story-books. “ I wis’ bwover 
Hawwy was tummin’ too, to see the kitties and 
chickies !” 

“ I wish so too,” said Harry, sighing. “ I hate to 
think to-morrow is the last day. And after that 
we must have a week of bustle before leaving the 
house. Our whole lives seemed revolutionized 
since last spring !” 

“ You must write to me often, dear, and tell me 
all that interests you,” said Miss Westbrooke. 

“ Our lives will be rather monotonous I imagine, 
for I mean to study hard, and father will probably 
be absorbed in business, as usual. You will hard- 
ly care for a record of lessons, perfect or imper- 
fect.” 


ALMOST A MAN. 


118 . 

“ I will care for any detail that makes up the 
sum of your life, Harry. I am glad your old am- 
bition to excel in study has come back, because 
your father is evidently so proud of your progress. 

“ But” — and Miss Westbrooke’s voice grew very 
earnest — “you will not allow even that to take 
the place of more important reading, morning and 
evening, Harry ?” 

“ I will not,” was the grave reply. “Your beau- 
tiful gift, my first Bible, shall lie upon my bedroom 
table, wherever we may be, Aunt Ellen, and I will 
not neglect its pages, or take its teachings careless- 
ly. I feel my own ignorance very painfully, and I 
shall long for you every time I open my book ; 
but I will try, prayerfully, to keep my standard 
erect and shining.” 

“ And when temptations come, Harry, seek for 
strength where help never fails.” 

Margaret and Jeannette had left the room before 
these last serious words were spoken, but they now 
returned bringing Etta’s costly toys from the nur- 
sery, to be packed in the tops of the large trunks. 
The French doll and her wardrobe and jewelry had 
a separate box, carefully fastened ; and most of the 
mechanical toys had their own cases. But the 
packing required careful supervision, for Miss 


FOR ETTA'S SAKE. 


119 

Westbrooke was aware of the money value of the 
articles, and loath to have them injured although 
they represented to her a waste almost unpardon- 
able. 

“ Etta will be able to open a museum in Fair- 
haven,” she said, smiling ; “ for I think all the grown 
people as well as the children will flock to see those 
toys. They are a wonder to me yet, and I shall 
be half afraid to wind them up, or handle them, for 
fear of ruining them.” 

“ They are regular rubbish, as far as children 
are concerned,” said Harry contemptuously. “ I had 
just such a collection, and if I ventured to touch 
one, a cry of warning reminded me of their value. 
I have spent hour after hour building houses with 
bundles of kindling wood, with hundreds of dollars’ 
worth of toys upon shelves I could not reach, all sup- 
posed to have been purchased for my amusement. 
If I were you, Auntie, I would let Etta have the 
pleasure of smashing them all, if she cannot enjoy 
them in any other way. There,” and he laughed 
a clear boyish laugh, “you look as horrified as the 
most tyrannical nurse of them all.” 

Miss Westbrooke’s expression of dismay gave 
way to smiles at her nephew’s criticism, and she 
said pleasantly, “ We shall be out of the reach of 


120 


ALMOST A MAN. 


toy-shops, Harry, and in the long winter days, 
when Etta must stay indoors, perhaps we can learn 
to play with the toys without breaking them.” 

“ Do n’t want toys ; I want chickies,” murmured 
Etta drowsily, having been half asleep during this 
long conversation. 

“ There !” Margaret said presently, “ that is all 
that we can do to-night, Miss Westbrooke, if you 
do not want these two last trunks fastened till 
to-morrow evening. I will bring up Miss Etta’s 
travelling dress early, so that it can air all day. I 
hope, I am sure,” she added kindly, “ that the 
change will do her good. She’s always been a 
weakly little thing, they say, and I ’m sure she ’s 
the quietest child I ever nursed, no trouble to any- 
body.” 

With this doubtful praise Margaret kissed the 
little pale face resting on Harry’s shoulder, and 
went to her last laundry work for the sick child. 

All that evening and as much of the next day 
as he could be at home, Harry passed with his aunt 
and sister, grudging every moment spent away 
from them, in view of the long separation in pros- 
pect. Unless there was some change such as they 
all hesitated to mention in the little invalid, there 
was no proposal of meeting until Harry’s July va- 


FOR ETTA'S SAKE. 


121 


cation, which his aunt cordially invited him to 
sperfd at Fairhaven. Letters would be some com- 
fort, but poor Harry with an aching heart felt that 
letters would not bring the clasp of Etta’s baby 
arms about his neck, the sweet voice and bright 
smile of his aunt Ellen. Yet, with rare self-con- 
trol, the boy made no show of his sorrow, keeping a 
cheerful face over his sore heart, ever helpful, ever 
pleasant, and throwing no cloud of discontent over 
the prospect that was so cheerless. 

“ For Etta’s sake ! To save Etta’s life !” 

These were the words he whispered to his own 
heart whenever the separation seemed too hard to 
bear, and they lingered on his lips, when at the 
d£pot he gave the child, after one close warm em- 
brace, into Miss Westbrooke’s arms, and kissing 
her silently, too much moved to speak, he turned 
away, sadly conscious that the very sunshine of his 
home was gone. 

“ Without Etta to love, without Aunt Ellen to 
help me,” he thought, “ shall I ever be able to keep 
my heart strong and my life stainless ?” and while he 
struggled to keep back any outward sign of emo- 
tion, his heart was lifted in fervent prayer for love 
and strength, beyond any earth could offer. 

He was glad that the hour made it necessary 
16 


Almost a Man. 


ALMOST A MAN. 


1 22 

to hasten at once from the d^pot to the Academy ; 
for the travellers had left upon an early morning 
train, Mr. Westbrooke having said farewell at the 
carriage-door, before they drove from the house, 
and confided all arrangements of baggage and tick- 
ets to Harry, who had often been his mother’s only 
escort in summer travel. 

I am glad I can study for five hours at any rate,” 
Harry thought, “and perhaps it will not seem so 
desolate in the boardinghouse next week. I can’t 
miss Aunt Ellen and Etta so much as I should at 
home. If only the little darling gets strong and 
well, we can bear any sacrifice. Poor father ! I must 
be everything to him now !” The consciousness of 
being necessary to the happiness of another carried 
some comfort to the lonely, aching heart of the 
boy, who was a true child in tender affection, if he 
was almost a man in years and intellect. 


THE NEW HOME. 


123 


CHAPTER X. 

THE NEW HOME. 

The splendid house in which the Westbrookes 
had lived for more than nineteen years had never 
been a home in the tender loving sense of the word. 
Very few associations of sweet intercourse clustered 
about the superbly-furnished rooms, even that room 
that will often bring a smile or a tear into the eyes 
of old people when remembered or named — “ moth- 
er’s room.” 

To Harry it was merely an apartment where he 
had been taken by his nurse when dressed for a 
walk or a drive, to wait patiently while his mother 
put the last touches to her own outdoor costume. 
His own room was pleasant, but his father had told 
him to remove anything he fancied from his moth- 
er’s room, or any part of the house, to the rooms al- 
ready engaged in a large boardinghouse. 

Yet it was a sore pain to the lad when he re- 
turned from school, to find the auctioneer and his 
assistants already labelling and sorting the furni- 
ture, tramping from room to room, making the ar- 
rangements most convenient for a sale. 


124 


ALMOST A MAN. 


He found his father in the library, wearily lean- 
ing back in his chair, his face pale and careworn, 
and already the sense of being needed roused the 
boy from his own grief. 

“You look very tired,” he said respectfully, 
“ can I be of any use ?” 

“ I am very tired,” was the reply, “ but there is 
very little in this room to be sold, and I can scarce- 
ly trust the selection out of my own hands. The 
books and cases I want you to have. The standing 
desk and library-table can go, but my own secre- 
tary had better be locked, just as it is, and moved to 
my room. You are sure your aunt has all your 
mother’s things ? I could not bear to have them 
sold.” 

“Aunt Ellen understood that perfectly, sir. 
She packed all the books, pictures, and ornaments, 
everything in the rooms indeed, her bedroom and 
boudoir, excepting the heavy furniture.” 

“ For Etta! Etta will value them when she is 
older. As for you and me, Harry, we are able to 
bear loneliness and sorrow ; but we will spare Etta 
if we can.” 

There was a tone of anxiety in these words 
that greatly surprised H^rry, and yet he was proud 
of the certainty that his father was already making 


THE NEW HOME. 


125 


him a companion, taking him into a partnership of 
feeling as if he was already a man. 

“ Etta must be happy with Aunt Ellen,” he said, 
thinking a moment before speaking, to find the 
most comforting assurance. 

“Yes, yes! Ellen is very kind, very good! 
We will run up there some day, Harry, and you 
shall see the home where your father was born. 
Very different from this,” he added, but not proudly, 
only with a deep sigh, “ very different ! I did not 
have your advantages,” he added, with a troubled, 
anxious face, “and yet I prospered. You ought to 
be able to do more than your father has done, my 
boy, if ever you are called upon to care for your- 
self — and Etta.” 

Just at that moment one of the men put his 
head in at the door to ask Mr. Westbrooke to see 
about some arrangements in the drawingroom, and 
he followed him at once, leaving Harry rather be- 
wildered at his last words. 

“ Care for yourself and Etta.” Was his father 
going to die ? The lad thought of the pale face 
and heavy eyes that he had scarcely noticed before, 
and his heart reproached him that he had done so 
little to help his father. All through the hot 
months, while he was enjoying the sea-breezes, he 


126 


ALMOST A MAN. 


now recollected that his father had been working 
steadily in his close countinghouse. To be sure, 
this was the customary state of affairs, but never 
before had any thought of the matter troubled Har- 
ry’s brain. 

“ Father must rest,” he thought. “ I ’ll try to 
coax him to take a trip somewhere, or let me do 
some of his writing. If I am to be his partner, I 
might as well learn something of business now. 
But I know I shall hate it. I thought I might be a 
lawyer or a doctor, or even do nothing for years to 
come. I am glad the books are not to be sold. It 
was very kind for father to save them for me. 
But he is always kind.” And again the sting of 
self-reproach reminded Harry how entirely as a 
matter of course he had accepted his father’s indul- 
gence for all his life, placing no especial value upon 
his privileges, his costly gifts, but accepting them 
with only the careless “ Thank you, sir,” he might 
have given to any stranger. 

It was a new thought to him since his mother 
died, that since his infancy his father had been plan- 
ning his future life ; that his school privileges were 
designed to save him from the troubles of a deficient 
education, one of Mr. Westbrooke’s own trials ; 
that in all the advantages he enjoyed, his father 


THE NEW HOME. 


12 7 


considered his future prosperity as well as his pres- 
ent pleasure. He knew that for all this love, ex- 
pressed in thoughtful care more than in caresses or 
words of affection, he had given but little return. 
The opportunity to make amends for such careless- 
ness was now before him, and very earnestly Har- 
ry resolved to lighten his father’s loneliness and 
cares as much as was possible. 

In the three days that followed, there was but lit- 
tle time for any quiet conversation, the house being 
filled with strangers buying and selling, men carry- 
ing away the furniture, and all the confusion of an 
auction sale keeping the inmates in a whirl of excite- 
ment. The house itself was sold last of all, and 
then, turning their faces away, Mr. Westbrooke and 
Harry followed the van containing the possessions 
they had reserved to their new home. 

Their rooms consisted of three handsome apart- 
ments in a large stylish boardinghouse, one large 
•sittingroom between two smaller rooms furnished 
for sleeping apartments, and all connected. It was 
more cheerful work to superintend the placing of 
their possessions so as to give a homelike air to 
the new place, than it had been to watch the dis- 
mantling of the old one. Harry tried to give the 
sittingroom as much as possible the look of the li- 





ALMOST A MAN. 

brary that had been his father’s favorite room m 
his old home, having, upon his qwn responsibility, 
ordered the removal of his arm-chair and rug, and a 
few of the pictures and ornaments. 

Mr. Westbrooke parted from Harry at the door, 
saying, “ I must go down-town for an hour or two, 
Harry. Can you see to all this ?” — pointing to the 
van. 


\ 


“ Yes, sir. It is Saturday, you know. Is there 
any especial arrangement you would like made ?” 

“&o! Do just as you like. You know the 
rooms, third story, front.” 

Harry went to work with a will, wondering a 
little at his own success in arranging many mat- 
tetihjie had certainly never taken in his charge be- 
fore. ^Taking off coat, vest and cuffs, he helped to 
shelve books, hang pictures, place ornaments, and 
when the carmen were dismissed, even unpacked 
the clothing and put it in orderly, piles in his fa- 
ther’s and his own bureau and closet. 

“I think I would make a firstrate chamber- 
maid,” he said, laughing to himself, as he looked 
ahout him when he had finished his work. “ Those 
trunks fit under the closet-shelf as if they were 
made to go there, and all the dust and rubbish is 
cleared away. Father will laugh when I tell him 


» 


{ 




















« 










































* 















» 




















THE NEW HOME. 


129 


how independently I declined the assistance of the 
landlady, Mrs. — what did he say her name was ? 
Mrs. — oh, I know — Dalton. I wonder if all board- 
inghouse landladies are so cross. Meredith’s looks 
as if she was fed on crab apples. Poor things, I 
suppose it is hard work ! There, my hands are 
cleaned at last, though I began to despair of that 
result, and here comes father.” 

Mr. Westbrooke’s glance of surprised pleasure 
quite repaid Harry for his day of unaccustomed toil. 
“It don’t look at all as it did the day I engaged 
the rooms,” he said, with evident gratification, 
“but really home-like! You have a better head 
than mine, Harry, for detail. I never thought of 
the chair or lounge, and now that they are here, I 
know how sorry I should have been to miss the 
pictures and bronzes.” 

“ I am glad you approve,” said Harry. “ You had 
so much to think of, I thought I would venture to 
act so far on my own responsibility. There is a let- 
ter from Aunt Ellen for you, sir. She directed 
both here, yours and mine.” 

“ How is Etta ?” 

“ Better already, and gaining every day.” 

“That is good news.” 

“ The best of news.” 


Almost a Man. 


17 


130 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“ Shall you be busy this evening ?” 

“ Yes, very busy.” 

There was a pause of some moments, during 
which Mr. Westbrooke read his letter, and then 
sank into deep thought. Harry, with a new plan 
in his mind, that had cost him a severe struggle 
with his own selfish desires, watched the clouded 
thoughtful face silently wondering if it was wise to 
interrupt the train of meditation, a little shy yet of 
trying to break through his father’s habitual reserve. 

The dinner rang before he had conquered his 
hesitation, and there was a new ordeal in meeting 
so many strangers, though summer life at a hotel 
had set Harry at his ease under such circum- 
stances. 

No face among the many near him attracted 
him particularly, and he felt no disposition to enter 
the parlors, but followed his father up stairs. Mr. 
Westbrooke, however, at once said, “ There are 
young people down stairs, Harry. You need not 
mope up here.” 

“ I do n’t intend to mope, father. But,” and he 
spoke eagerly and rapidly, half afraid yet of a re- 
proof for officious interference, “ I want you to let 
me help you, if I can.” 

“Help me! How?” 


THE NEW HOME. 


3i 


“I cannot say, sir. You must decide that. But 
I think I might do some of the writing, if you will 
be kind enough to teach me. And I am sure it 
will help me if I am to go into the business, to 
learn something of the routine. I hope I am not 
intruding, sir.” 

‘*No, my boy, no! You are thoughtful and 
kind. Perhaps after a time I can accept your offer ; 
but not yet ! I am obliged to give my own attention 
to the correspondence now ! And you have your 
studies. Make the most of your school-time, Harry. 
I may change my mind about sending you to col- 
lege.” 

Again that fear that his father felt some pre- 
sentiment of death, crossed Harry’s mind as he saw 
the tenderness of the gaze resting on his face. 
Demonstrative affection was very rare with the 
Westbrookes, but the fear and the love in the lad’s 
heart prompted him to draw near his father, and 
grasp his hand hard. 

“You are not looking well,” he said, in a falter- 
ing voice, “ and I am afraid you work too hard for 
us.” 

“There are some pressing matters requiring 
my close attention,” was the reply, as the pressure 
of Harry’s hand was returned, “ but I am not ill, in 


32 


ALMOST A MAN. 


any way. At seventy, men feel any sorrow and 
excitement very deeply, Harry, very deeply.” 

He turned away as he spoke, and opened his 
secretary, while Harry, taking this as a hint to 
cease talking, opened a book, and began to read. It 
was still early, when, weary with his unusually busy 
day, he went to his own room, waking once or 
twice during the night to hear his father’s pen still 
scratching busily, till the mantel clock chimed two, 
and the click of the lock of the secretary told him 
it was closed at last. But long after this, half-sleep- 
ing, half-waking, he heard his father’s steps pacing 
up and down the sittingroom and finally he fell 
into a deep, dreamless sleep knowing Mr. West- 
brooke had not yet gone to his own room. 

It was not an unusual indulgence to sleep late 
on Sunday morning, and Mrs. Dalton was far too 
politic toward her fashionable boarders to make 
any disturbing noise about the house, allowing the 
choice between morning nap and breakfast to be 
entirely a matter of inclination. It was understood 
that the meal was ready until a late hour, but after 
ringing one bell at nine o’clock, no further disturb- 
ance of slumber was allowed. And there was not 
one child in the house, so that no baby voices or 
feet broke the quiet. 


THE NEW HOME. 


133 


Very weary, awake unusually late, Harry there- 
fore slumbered peacefully till after ten o’clock, 
waking at last with luxurious slowness, drowsily 
wondering if it was any time of day in particular. 
Stretching his hand to his watch, which lay as 
usual upon a table near the head of his bed, he 
started to see the hour. 

“ Quarter past ten ! This wont do !” he thought. 
“ I must make some arrangement to be called ear- 
ly. No church this morning, and I promised Aunt 
Ellen to go regularly. She must forgive me this 
time, in consideration of my heavy day’s work yes- 
terday. Father must be up ! I hear some one in 
the sittingroom ! I wonder if they keep a fellow’s 
breakfast till noon.” 

Mr. Westbrooke was up, reading a newspaper, 
when Harry came in rather shamefaced at his tar- 
diness. 

“ I gave orders to keep you something to eat,” 
he said, as his son entered the room. “ One must 
get accustomed, I suppose, to other people’s rule. 
But you will find it all right.” 

“ Thanks !” Harry said. “ I do not often sleep 
till this hour. I must get some of the servants to 
call me earlier.” 

“ Yes, it would not do on school-days, but it does 


134 


ALMOST A MAN. 


not make any difference on Sunday,” said Mr. West- 
brooke carelessly. “ Are you going out ?” 

“ Not this morning. I should be late for church ; 
I will come up again, as soon as I get some break- 
fast.” 

“Oh, by the way ! did you notice where they 
put a small tin-box, padlocked, that was in my 
trunk. I could not find it last night, and I did not 
like to wake you.” 

“It is on the upper shelf of the closet in this 
room. Shall I get it now ?” 

“ I wish you would. And I will keep it on top 
of the secretary. Give orders to have it undis- 
turbed, will you?” 

“Yes, sir,” Harry called from the closet, where 
standing upon one of the trunks he was reaching 
for the box. It was easily found, and placing it 
upon the table, Harry, after asking if there was 
anything more he could do and receiving an an- 
swer in the negative, went down to his late break* 
fast. 


DIVIDED DUTY. 


135 


CHAPTER XI. 

DIVIDED DUTY. 

Hastily despatching a meal that had been kept 
too long upon the fire, and was eaten in solitary 
state, Harry was soon again in the sittingroom. 
He found his father had taken all the books and 
ornaments, even the cloth off the large centre- 
table, and was busily occupied in sorting the pa- 
pers contained in the tin-box, and making them 
into packages bound with red tape. 

It was not a new experience to Harry that his 
father worked at home upon Sunday, upon such 
papers and writing as could be put aside for a few 
days during the week ; but he had never been 
brought into actual intercourse with him at such 
times. The library was understood to be Mr. 
Westbrooke’s home-sanctum, where no one ven- 
tured to disturb him except upon important busi- 
ness, and of that Harry had very little, his most 
urgent requests usually meeting prompt attention, 
and as prompt a dismissal of the petitioner. 

He felt a strange reluctance even yet to enter 


136 


ALMOST A MAN. 


the room where his father was so busily engaged, 
but his own bedroom was a middle room, lighted 
only from the large sittingroom, and very close 
and dim for reading. He took his Bible from the 
table at the bedside, wishing to fill the church- 
time with reading that would satisfy his own con- 
science, and moved quietly to a seat near the win- 
dow. But quietly as he moved his father was fully 
aware of his presence, for he lifted his head pres- 
ently, saying, “ If you are not going out, Harry, I 
wish you would renew that offer of assistance you 
made last evening.” 

“ Certainly, sir,” was the prompt reply. “ What 
can I do ?” 

“Just tie up the papers I have sorted into pack- 
ages, as neatly as you can, like those I have already 
tied! You will find plenty of tape in the right- 
hand compartment of the box.” 

Pleased to be of use, Harry drew up his chair, 
and made up the parcels very neatly, while his 
father sorted as busily. 

“ I will give you a list presently,” Mr. West- 
brooke said, “ and get you to direct a package of 
envelopes for me. Each one must have one of 
those folded papers at your left hand and a stamp 
enclosed, as well as a stamp outside. I intended 


DIVIDED DUTY. 


137 


to give them to a clerk to-morrow morning, but I 
can save one mail if they are done to-day.” 

Harry made no reply, bending low over his red 
tape and bundles of papers. In the interval of 
silence since he began his work, having only his 
hands employed, his thoughts had been most un- 
comfortably pressing. 

Over and over had he repeated, always with a 
keener sense of wrong-doing, the words his aunt 
Ellen had used to rouse his own conscience, “ Re- 
member the Sabbath-day, to keep it holy. Six 
days shalt thou labor and do all thy work; but the 
seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God. 
In it thou shalt do no manner of work.” 

Here Harry felt his hands faltering and his 
heart sinking, knowing he was acting in direct dis- 
obedience to the divine command. 

As I have said before, Harry Westbrooke’s dis- 
regard of religious duties had arisen from a want 
of proper instruction and example, and not from a 
hardening of the conscience by habitual rejection 
of its claims. But now these claims fell with sud- 
den force and clearness upon a mind naturally 
candid, and urged by loving lips had taken firm 
hold of the boy, producing in him a tenderness of 
feeling seldom seen in persons whose religion is 

Almost ft Man. 18 


133 


ALMOST A MAN. 


merely a matter of habit. He could temporize 
with no duty. He weighed new questions sternly 
by only one balance. Expediency was not con- 
sulted, convenience was set aside, but the straight 
line between right and wrong was adjusted with 
prayerful thought. 

Upon that Sunday morning, for the first time, 
however, this line did not appear to settle the ques- 
tion in Harry’s heart. One commandment pointed 
to one duty. Another, “ Honor thy father and thy 
mother,” pressed as heavily upon the lad’s heart. 
How could he, a boy of seventeen, attempt to dic- 
tate to his father, an old man whom he loved and 
respected ? 

Another minor consideration, perhaps, but very 
keenly felt, was his own apparent inconsistency. 
He had eagerly proffered help not twenty-four hours 
before, and at the first call made upon him, and 
for very light work, he would appear to enter reluc- 
tantly upon the task required. His father would 
surely think such reluctance proved the insincerity 
of his offers. 

After all, it was but a few hours’ work that was 
required of him, and he could spend the remainder 
of the day in occupations suited to the Sabbath. 
And while he thought painfully, and with his con- 


DIVIDED DUTY. 


139 


science more and more uneasy, Harry kept his 
fingers busy tying up the parcels, until the last 
one was finished. 

Seeing this, Mr. Westbrooke left his seat to 
open the secretary and take out the stamps and 
envelopes, and returning with these to the table, 
he v noticed for the first time Harry’s troubled 
face. 

“You are tired, my son,” he said, “or I am 
keeping you from some work of your own.” 

“No,” Harry said, too truthful to make any 
evasions, “ but I had rather write the envelope di- 
rections in the morning if you will call me early.” 

“Oh, the clerk can do them,” said Mr. West- 
brooke a little coldly. “I thought, from what you 
said last evening, you would like to be employed a 
little while in helping me.” 

“ So I should,” Harry said, “ only I — ” and then 
he paused. 

Was it his place to teach his father his duty ? 
Was it not rather more becoming and respectful to 
give him implicit obedience ? 

But he was no longer a child to be led blindly 
even by his father, and after a moment of hesita- 
tion he said in a low voice, “ It is Sunday, father.” 

“ And you think, after studying all the week, it 


140 


ALMOST A MAN. 


is rather hard to write all day Sunday,” said Mr. 
Westbrooke kindly. 

Again a gate of evasion was open, but again 
Harry resolutely closed it. “ No,” he said, more 
firmly now, “ I like to write. But we are com- 
manded not to work on the Sabbath.” 

There ! He had said it ! No martyr at the 
stake had ever spoken with a more true martyr 
spirit ! What would follow ? He dared not look 
up, and his face was very pale, as his father looked 
keenly and earnestly into it. A dead silence pre- 
vailed for a few moments, as the boy sat with 
troubled face and downcast eyes, his hands idly 
falling upon the paper-strewn table, waiting for his 
father to speak. And his father, standing opposite 
to him, the envelopes and stamps still in his hands, 
looked searchingly into the boy’s face. 

What did he read there ? What recollections of 
his own boyhood, his own father’s teachings, crowded 
into his busy troubled mind, in those few moments 
of deep quiet ? Only his Maker knew. In a few 
moments, that seemed an hour to Harry, he spoke, 
very slowly, in a low voice, “ Is that some of your 
aunt Ellen’s teaching, my boy ?” 

The tone of the last two words nearly destroyed 
Harry’s forced composure, but he said softly, 


DIVIDED DUTY. 


141 

“ Yes, father.” 

“ I thought so ! You do well to remember all 
that she has ever said to you, Harry. She is a 
pure upright Christian woman, and could teach you 
nothing but good.” 

“ You are not angry with me ?” Harry said im- 
ploringly, for his father’s voice was almost stern in 
its gravity. 

“ No, my son, I am not angry with you. Nor 
will I ask you to strain your conscience for me. I 
will take this work to the office again.” 

“ If you will let me do it in the morning,” said 
Harry, “ I am quite sure I can finish it before 
school-time; and indeed, father, I do want to help 
you.” 

“ In your own time,” said Mr. Westbrooke, 
smiling half sadly. “ Well, take the envelopes and 
enclosures, and put them aside till morning, then. 
These drawers in the table are empty, put them in 
one of them. Take your book now, I will not dis- 
turb you again.” 

Harry opened his Bible with a lighter heart. 
He had not offended his father, but he was yet too 
young, too new a disciple himself, to attempt to 
guide his father’s conscience. It was sufficient for 
him that he was released kindly with no reproach 


142 


ALMOST A MAN. 


for his unwillingness to perform the task set before 
him. He was quite sure that he could accomplish 
it early in the morning, and he would ask a servant 
to knock at the sittingroom door to awake him. 

Musing and reading with a quietly happy face, 
he did not see that his father was earnestly watch- 
ing him, letting his own work lie neglected under 
his hands. He did not know how the thoughts of 
the old man had travelled back with lightning speed 
to his own boyhood. “ I wonder/’ he mused, “ if I 
would have dared to speak out as Harry spoke 
when I was seventeen. To be sure, any rebellion 
on my part must have been against my employers, 
and threatening my means of living. And I don’t 
remember that I was ever required to work on Sun- 
day. I used to spend it in arranging my private 
affairs and mending my clothes. I wonder what 
that young gentleman at the window would say, if 
he knew that his father patched and darned a very 
scanty supply of clothes with his own fingers. 
Times are changed now !” and a heavy sigh con- 
cluded this train of thought. 

“ Ellen has roused the boy’s religious feeling,” 
he thought presently, “and he will be a regular 
young Puritan. He never can do anything by 
halves, never could. Some of his father’s perseve- 


DIVIDED DUTY. 


M3 


ranee has descended to him, surely ! Poor Ellen ! 
I think she was terribly shocked to find our ways 
so different from all she was trained to believe a 
Christian life. A Christian life ! That was my 
father’s life. But a man in business cannot be so 
strict and then an uneasy conscience sternly ask- 
ed, “ Why not ?” “ After all, as Ellen says, the lad 

has only his father now to look to for earthly gui- 
dance, and I suppose example is better than pre- 
cept. I ’ll try to keep the Sunday work out of 
Harry’s sight.” 

It was but a compromise with his conscience, 
but Mr. Westbrooke did not realize that. It was 
for his son’s sake, not to make his own life better, 
that his thoughts had been devoted to serious con- 
sideration, and it was still for Harry’s sake that he 
gathered up his half-finished work and put it aside, 
rather unwillingly, as he was accustomed to start 
on Monday with such business as this off his mind 
for the week. And business, after being the old 
merchant’s idol for more than fifty years, could not 
fall to a secondary place suddenly, even when con- 
science spurred him most strongly. He had wor- 
shipped mammon with an undivided heart, and his 
love for his wife, children, and home, had never 
tempted him to neglect in the smallest measure 


*44 


ALMOST A MAN. 


the gathering of wealth, although he was ever wil- 
ling to spend it with a liberal hand. Married late 
in life, when already a rich man, he had never 
shared business cares with his family, who knew 
nothing of the source of the supplies they shared 
so bountifully and spent so freely, 

It is therefore not unnatural that while Harry, 
finding his duty divided between that due to his 
God and that to his father, gave his religious con- 
victions the first place, Mr. Westbrooke, choosing 
between his Creator and his son, gave Harry’s wel- 
fare the first consideration. Fully desiring that 
Harry should be a good man, realizing for the first 
time that he must give the lad his own guidance 
and encouragement, he determined, not to abandon 
his Sunday work because God had so commanded, 
but simply to keep it out of Harry’s sight, and so 
spare the boy the temptation of a bad example. 

It was luncheon-time before the papers were 
put aside, and after that meal was over, Harry pre- 
pared to go to afternoon service. 

“ Out, Harry ?” his father asked. 

“ I am going to church, sir. I wish you would 
go with me.” 

“ I am too — ” busy was the word to follow, but 
remembering his resolution. Mr. Westbrooke hesi- 


DIVIDED DUTY. 


145 


tated. After all, he thought, the lad must be lone- 
ly, and church was a good place for any one. 

“Well,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “I 
will, Harry. I will be ready in five minutes.” 

And in little more than that time the two left 
the house, with time enough still to walk slowly 
and leisurely to the sacred edifice, talking of Etta 
as they walked. 

But in the church it pained Harry deeply to see 
the heavy gloom which had been to a certain de- 
gree dissipated by the last few days of excitement, 
gather once more upon his father’s face. He rose 
mechanically, knelt and sat as others were doing 
around him, but it was evident his thoughts were 
far away, and Harry could not give his customary 
attention to the service, seeing the face he loved so 
shadowed and absorbed. 

When they were again in their own room, after 
dinner, Mr. Westbrooke lay upon the lounge, and 
called Harry to sit beside him. Without defining 
his motives even to his own heart, he talked to his 
son of his own boyhood — of the struggles, tempta- 
tions, and trials of his early life, dwelling strongly 
upon the industry, economy, and perseverance that 
had carried him steadily up the ladder of fortune, 
but refraining from his former pictures of Harry’s 
19 


Almost a Man. 


146 


ALMOST A MAN. 


own entrance into business life under more favora- 
ble auspices. He no longer talked to him of that 
junior partnership that was to double the fortune 
already made in the business, but seemed more to 
dwell upon such sacrifices as he had made himself, 
and the necessity for cultivating the same self- 
denying spirit. 

“ I am an old man, Harry,” he said, taking his 
son’s hand in his own, “and look forward to your 
future with many hopes and some misgivings. I 
fear that I have been wrong to cultivate so many 
luxurious tastes and habits in your boyhood, and 
yet I could not bear to deny you any pleasure it was 
in my power to grant. But it makes a poor foun- 
dation for the cares that come to all of us, Harry.” 

“You can never regret that you have given 
me the opportunity to acquire a good education, 
father ?” 

“ No, my boy, no. I had a very deficient edu- 
cation myself — could but just read and write when 
I left my home, and found it up-hill work to teach 
myself afterwards what little book-learning I pos- 
sess. Even my knowledge of figures was self- 
taught after my work hours were over. But you 
will know all that. And, Harry, if you should be 
left alone, boy, you will never forget Etta.” 


DIVIDED DUTY. 


147 


“ Never, though I trust she will have your care 
for many years to come.” 

“ Ellen will keep her until she grows up. But 
you are older, and will be a man long before she is 
a woman. I neglected visiting my sister for years, 
Harry, but I always loved her, and my first care 
when I saw my own way clear to wealth was to 
secure a competency for Ellen.” 

“ So she told me, sir. But Etta will never need 
more than you will give her, I hope.” 

“We cannot tell, my boy, we cannot tell. You 
were reading your Bible this morning ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Another promise to your aunt ?” 

“ Yes, sir, but a pleasure now as well.” 

“ She has been a good friend to you, Harry. If 
ever you need advice, go to her for it. Now it is 
Sunday evening, and I am very tired. Read to me 
from your Bible.” 

Harry gladly obeyed, reading in a low, reverent 
voice, while his father lay with closed eyes, perfectly 
quiet. It was still early, when, thinking Mr. West- 
brooke was sleeping, and anxious to wake in good 
season for his promised work, Harry went softly to 
his own room. Had he seen the two large tears 
that rolled down the old merchant’s wrinkled cheeks 


U3 


ALMOST A MAN. 


as he left him, he would have known that the quiet 
attitude was that of thoughtful listening, not sleep. 
Had he seen the lips move, he might perhaps have 
guessed the words they spoke : “ O God, bless and 
protect him. Keep his heart pure, and save him 
from the pitfalls and snares of this world. In 
wealth or poverty, in prosperity or sorrow, guard 
and keep him. ,> 

For in that hour of silent meditation the old 
merchant’s fond pride in his son deepened into a 
far more tender love than he had ever before known. 


ETTA A T FA1RHA VEN. 


149 


CHAPTER XII. 

ETTA A T FAIR HA VEN. 

The journey from New York to Fairhaven was 
an uninterrupted delight to little Etta. Softly 
cushioned by pillows upon the car-seat, or held ten- 
derly in her aunt’s arms, she watched the novel 
sights, too weak and languid to be restless, and 
sleeping when weary. Her questions proved her 
interest; and Miss Westbrooke, to whom the care 
of a child was a new pleasure, was never tired of 
listening to and answering the baby prattle. 

It was nearly dark when the old-fashioned carry- 
all, that was the depot carriage at the Fairhaven 
station, drove into the gate of the farmyard, and 
rattled up to the kitchen-door. Already the even- 
ing was chilly, and the sight of the glowing cook- 
ing-stove was very inviting, and not less so the 
tempting supper spread upon a snowy cloth on a 
table near the centre of the large room. David and 
Mary Hill, servants who had grown gray in the ser- 
vice of the Westbrookes, were waiting to welcome 
Miss Ellen, whose long absence had been a sore 


ALMOST A MAN. 


150 

grief to them, and their greetings were warm and 
sincere. 

“ Sit right here,” Mary said, drawing forward 
the easiest chair in the room ; “ and, David, you can 
shut the door now the carriage is through the gate. 
Deary me, what a sweet birdie !” she added, taking 
Etta into her own kind arms. 

“ We must try to get some country roses on her 
cheeks,” said David, gently touching the little pale 
face with one big rough finger. “ Our little ones 
were never so peaked as that, Mary.” 

“I hope Fairhaven air will soon make Etta as 
rosy as your children were, David,” said Miss West- 
brooke. “It will give the old farm a new home- 
look to see a child here.” 

David sighed. It had been a great sorrow to 
him and to his wife that all their children, when 
married, had left their old home ; and they saw 
their grandchildren only in brief summer visits. 
They were more than willing to accept their share 
of the care of this little city child, so like a lily in 
delicacy that they were half afraid to touch her. 

“ May Etta have turn ?” the child asked pres- 
ently, pointing to the well-spread table. 

“Yes, indeed, darling, as soon as I get your hat 
off. Are you very tired, Miss Ellen ?” 


ETTA A T FAIRHA VEN. 


I5i 

“Yes. Travelling is something new to me. 
But I shall soon be rested again. Is Etta ready for 
supper ?” 

“ Quite ready now.” 

“ And vewy hungwy,” said Etta. 

The little one looked inquiringly from one face 
to the other, as Miss Westbrooke, David, and Mary 
stood with bowed heads at the table, while the mis- 
tress of the house asked a blessing. With the quick 
imitative perception of most children, she folded her 
own little hands and bent her own head also, lifting 
it quickly when they were all seated, to ask, “What 
you say ’at for, Auntie ?’’ 

“To thank God for giving us a good supper, 
Etta." 

“ You don’t mean to say that child never heard 
a blessing asked before ?” cried David. 

“ She has been brought up in a nursery by a 
maid," said Miss Westbrooke. “ City ways are not 
our ways, David.” 

‘I should think not," cried Mary, “if any 
mother could leave a sweet flower like that entirely 
to a nurse !" 

“ Does your supper taste nice ?" asked David, 
touching Etta’s curls. 

“’Ess !’’ was the reply. “ Etta likes it here." 


152 


ALMOST A MAN. 


And many times during the next few weeks did 
Miss Westbrooke receive the same assurance of 
little Etta’s happiness. Etta certainly “ liked” life 
at Fairhaven. The fall weather was still sufficient- 
ly warm during the daytime for active outdoor 
exercise, and when it was chilly in the morning and 
evening, all the indoor occupations were keen de- 
lights to the child. 

Jeannette would probably have olasped her 
hands in horror, had she seen her dainty charge 
dressed in a neat plain dress, with a big gingham 
apron on, cutting out baby devices in thin-rolled 
gingerbread sheets, under Mary’s delighted super- 
vision, or denting the edges of piecrust with her 
tiny fingers. The usual pleasures of country chil- 
dren were never-ending sources of amusement, and 
all the anticipations regarding the “chickies” and 
“ kitties” were more than realized. The child’s 
extreme gentleness soon won the confidence of the 
live creatures, which were handled so tenderly that 
they never feared the outstretched baby hands that 
could not hurt them. The hens, ducks, and geese 
answered the soft cooing voice calling them in 
pretty baby invitation, and gathered to be fed 
around Etta’s feet, while she scattered the corn 
from her carefully-held apron, never fearing even 


ETTA A T FAIRHA VEN. 


153 


the outstretched heads of the great white geese. 
Pigs she did not admire ; of cows she was a little 
afraid ; and it took some time for her to make a 
friend of Hero, the big house-dog. But the poul- 
try delighted her from the first, and she gave loyal 
love to David and Mary, always pleased to be car- 
ried in David’s arms about the farm, to be lifted up 
to reach great yellow pears or rosy-cheeked apples 
in the orchard, and as much delighted to trot after 
Mary in the kitchen, and feel the importance of 
helping in the cooking. 

Mindful of every direction given by Dr. Lewis, 
Miss Westbrooke guarded Etta from exposure and 
chill, more than would have been needful with a 
more robust child ; keeping her little feet well pro- 
tected, her throat and chest carefully wrapped, but 
giving her plenty of fresh air and sunlight, and 
simple, nourishing food. 

Mary truly declared that every day saw some 
improvement in Etta’s health. The languid, slow 
step was soon replaced by a light, bounding run 
here or there, the sweet voice ringing out in true 
childish merriment. The thin cheeks rounded and 
grew rosy, the little frail figure became plump and 
strong, and before the really cold weather set in, 
Miss Westbrooke, deeply thankful, wrote to her 

Almost a Man. 20 


r 54 


ALMOST A MAN. 


brother that Etta really seemed to be in perfect 
health. 

“ You would scarcely know Etta,” she wrote to 
Harry, “ she is so round and rosy, and seems so 
strong. I am no sluggard, but before my eyes are 
open in the morning she is up, and can nearly 
dress herself, running to Mary only for buttons she 
cannot reach. Then she is down stairs, wrapped 
up well, for the mornings are cold, and off to the 
barn with David, to fill her apron with corn for the 
chickens. She never tires of that, and all the poul- 
try would have a breakfast lasting till tea-time, I 
think, if our darling’s own appetite did not send 
her into the house at the first sound of the bell. 
And she does not taste little bits daintily, relishing 
only highly-seasoned dishes, but eats her bread, 
milk, eggs, and fruit, with a really healthy appre- 
ciation of their merits. 

“ After breakfast, not to tire the little feet too 
much, I teach Etta her letters, finding her own 
pretty picture-blocks a great help : and then we go 
over the house together, and you would be amused 
to see her dust the lower parts of the furniture, 
pound the feather pillows with her tiny fists, and 
pick up any threads she finds on the carpet. All 
this is to hurry ‘ auntie * for our daily walk, where 


ETTA A T FAIRHA VEN. 1 55 

she finds great amusement in all the country sights 
and sounds. There is a small brook on the farm, 
where she can see little fish dart in and out among 
the rocks at the bottom, and that is a favorite walk. 
Some late fall blossoms generally make a 1 posy ’ to 
carry home, and we can still find some fruit left by 
David in the gathering for the baby to pluck. Din- 
ner comes at noon, for I do not like late hours for 
hearty meals ; and after dinner we sew, our baby 
with a wee thimble putting stitches that would not 
bear very severe criticism, into little squares of 
calico, to make a patchwork quilt, whose destina- 
tion at present is to cover ‘ bwover Hawwy’s toes/ 
when finished. 

“ As we sew we talk, and I am trying to teach 
Etta to say each word plainly, and use the right 
letters. It is very comical to see the puckers this 
brings into the dear little face, and r and / are still 
unconquered difficulties. She is inclined to be a 
thoughtful child, and understands such teaching of 
holy things as suits her years very perfectly, deeply 
interested in all relating to the life of Christ. Hear- 
ing David speak of the manger, she was eager to 
see it, and I had to tell her the beautiful story of 
the Nativity in the barn, and point out to her, as 
far as I could, the points of resemblance. Her little 


1 56 


ALMOST A MAN. 


face will grow rapt with attention while she listens, 
and in her baby faults she will shake her head sad- 
ly to say, ‘Jesus ’ont love a bad Etta. Etta must 
be dood.’ And very good she is, the little darling. 
Mary is devoted to her, allowing her to make all 
sorts of messes in the kitchen, under the impres- 
sion that she is preparing some great delicacy, and 
letting her assist on baking-days in all the biscuit 
cutting and pricking, and the filling of pie-plates. 

“There is a wide piazza on the front of the 
house where Etta can play for hours, when we do 
not take a walk, and she has already collected there 
a number of playthings that would excite Jean- 
nette’s profound contempt. An empty bird’s-nest 
David found, with three round stones for eggs, is 
one favorite, and there are many others quite as 
simple. Here, with a small doll she can easily 
hold and nurse, she spends much happy time rock- 
ing in the chair I brought from her nursery, and 
* keeping house ’ upon a plan entirely her own. 

“ She talks a great deal of her father and of you, 
but I have never heard her express one regret for 
the loss of her splendid nursery, and she never 
asks for her toys. David has commenced the con, 
struction of a sled for the first snow, and Etta 
watches his progress with great interest, and hopes 


ETTA A T FAIRHA YEN. 


57 


for snow, to test its merits, very soon. I shall let 
her enjoy as much fresh-air exercise as is prudent, 
even in winter, when it is clear. And you must 
think of her as very happy, gaining in strength 
every day, and never forgetting her papa or your- 
self.” 

Then the letter referred to other matters, but 
this account of Etta was a great comfort both to 
Mr. Westbrooke and to Harry, who could be per- 
fectly reconciled to the separation from the child 
knowing that she was benefiting so much by the 
change. Never having had companions of her own 
age, Etta did not miss them, perfectly satisfied with 
the attentions of the three old people who made 
her the very centre of their home-thoughts. She 
gladly exchanged her French doll, too precious to 
touch, for a small one with china head, feet, and 
hands, which could be washed, dressed and un- 
dressed, petted and carried, as all enjoyable dolls 
should be. Its cradle was allowed to stand near 
her own crib, and before she was herself undressed 
dollie’s nightgown was found, her clothes taken off, 
her little figure nicely tucked into the cradle, and 
herself gravely requested to “ shut her eyes and go 
s’eep, like dood dirl. M Etta firmly believing the 
wide-open eyes closed finally as tightly as her own 


1 5 8 


ALMOST A MAN. 


for a night’s slumber, although she informed Miss 
Westbrooke that no matter how early she got up, 
dollie was always “ wide awake and looking at 
her.” 

Great washing of doll’s clothing, and ironing of 
the same with a toy flat-iron Mary had preserved 
with some other treasures of her own children’s 
babyhood, took place sometimes, and Etta never 
knew how carefully Mary rinsed and ironed the 
wee garments after she had so carefully and with 
such painstaking rubbed them into wrinkles and 
hung them over a chair to air nicely. 

They were “booful and smoove and k’een,” 
when the child found them the next day, and dollie 
was dressed to be exhibited to Miss Westbrooke. 
Every pleasure was of the simplest description, all 
bearing more or less upon some future lessons of 
usefulness ; but Etta was thriving physically and 
mentally, learning early lessons she was never to 
forget, of a higher life than this one, and develop- 
ing in spiritual sweetness as well as bodily health, 
during the whole long winter. 

Anxieties that cost Miss Westbrooke many 
tears and many wakeful nights of prayer, did not 
touch the child’s life, and her aunt was thankful 
that she was too young to share the perplexities of 


ETTA A T FAIRHA VEN. 


! 59 


those who were most near and dear to her. By the 
time spring opened all present anxiety about the 
child’s health was at rest, although there was no 
proposal to take her back to the city, Mr. West- 
brooke gladly accepting his sister’s earnest invita- 
tion for Etta to remain with her for several years. 

“As long as my life is spared, I will fill as far 
as I can, a mother’s place to Etta,” she wrote ; 
“and so far from being a trouble to me, as you 
seem to fear, she is my greatest pleasure. I could 
not give her up without great sorrow at parting ; 
and since it seems the wisest course, as you are 
circumstanced, to leave her with me, let it comfort 
you to know it is to me the happiest course. She 
has had no illness of even the most trifling descrip- 
tion since she came to Fairhaven, and you may 
trust me to summon you if ever she seems to droop 
again, or need another change.” And Mr. West- 
brooke, knowing he could perfectly trust little 
Etta’s self-appointed guardian, gladly left her in her 
aunt’s kind and most loving care. 


i6o 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A STRUGGLE AND A VICTORY. 

But while Etta was gaining so much in her 
new home, and free, happy, country life, Mr. West- 
brooke and his son were tasting more bitter expe- 
rience. At first Harry was not conscious of any 
great change in his own routine of life except that 
of being more constantly brought into companion- 
ship with his father, who grew gradually far less 
reserved with his son than he had ever before been 
in his home life. 

Sharing the same sittingroom, it was impossi- 
ble to resist the many temptations to converse with 
one so well able to enter into the spirit of any in- 
teresting discussion as Harry, and from the topics 
of public moment the transition to matters strictly 
personal was easy and natural. Often when the 
cloud upon Mr. Westbrooke’s face was the heaviest 
before the dinner-hour, it would lighten and disap- 
pear for a time before Harry’s happy face and glee- 
ful account of some schoolboy mishap or pleasant 
hour’s frolic. For the boy was losing all fear of 
disturbing his father by a conversation, and while 


A STRUGGLE AND A VICTORY, 161 

his respect did not waver, he gained confidence 
every day. 

Yet, so gradually that he could scarcely feel the 
change, Harry was falling into the temptation so 
strong to all who board, to seek pleasure away from 
home. When his school hours were over, there 
was no one to welcome him in the empty rooms, 
for Mr. Westbrooke always lunched down town. 
Harry, with his mind wearied by application to his 
books through the morning, finding no congenial 
society in the boardinghouse, missing the custom- 
ary play with Etta or the quiet hour with his aunt, 
would go out for a walk. His horse had been sold 
when the house was dismantled, as inconvenient 
in a boardinghouse life, and while loath to give 
him up, Harry did not remonstrate against any de- 
cision made by his father. 

Walking often led his feet towards Walter Mer- 
edith’s boardinghouse, or to the homes of other 
companions of his own age, who occupied the same 
social position. And, lonely and craving sympathy, 
Harry soon found himself depending greatly upon 
such friends. They were all lively and pleasant, 
good company, and very willing to take Harry 
among them for a share in all their pleasures. Mr. 
Raymond had consented to the European trip for 

Almost A Man. 21 


ALMOST A MAN. 


162 

Walter, but the departure was postponed until 
March, as a more favorable season, and the winter 
was to be devoted to study with a private tutor, and 
this tutor was often one of the gayest members of 
the pleasure-seeking parties. 

A boating club, that counted Jack Raymond 
among its members, gave the others cordial wel- 
come, and many a pleasant afternoon in the early 
fall found Harry one of a boat’s crew, pulling from 
Harlem Bridge to High Bridge to train for some 
expected regatta, or trying his skill in an outrigger, 
half-exultant, half-timid. He was surprised that his 
enthusiastic descriptions of his pleasure had not 
met with his father’s usual inquiry at such times, 
“Would you not like your own boat, my son?” but 
concluded some fancy about the amusements being 
dangerous checked his usual generosity. 

Now, too, for the first time in his petted life, 
his requests for pocket-money often met, not with 
a refusal, but an excuse : “ I ’ll see about it to-mor- 
row,” or “ I cannot well spare it to-day, Harry !” 

Hesitating to repeat his request, he became 
less scrupulous about meeting his daily expenses, 
adding to his bills here or there with a recklessness 
very natural in a lad who believes his father holds 
a purse ever full and ever open. 


A STRUGGLE AND A VICTORY. 


163 


There was no difficulty in obtaining credit, for 
the rich Mr. Westbrooke’s son was well known in 
the stores where he was accustomed to deal, and his 
custom was sought upon such terms as best suited 
him. 

But other money matters weighed somewhat 
more heavily upon him. Keenly sensitive to rid- 
icule, without Aunt Ellen’s daily presence and ad- 
vice to strengthen him, Harry accepted many of 
the amusements of his companions with little twin- 
ges of conscience, but really regarding them as 
without positive sin or danger. He was resolute 
in refusing wine and tobacco, but he would not 
break up a game of whist or euchre where he was 
the only available fourth hand, and he was fond of 
showing his skill at billiards and backgammon. 
Betting was another temptation too frequently in- 
dulged in, when the races were in progress or a 
regatta under discussion, and none of these every- 
day matters seemed to Harry of sufficient impor- 
tance to be made the subject of especial thought, 
far less of earnest prayer. 

But when ready-money in his pocket failed, and 
his companions good-naturedly accepted his pledge 
of future payment, Harry was too well versed in the 
usages of society to rest easy under such debt. That 


1 64 


ALMOST A MAN. 


the young scions of fashion probably needed the 
sums in question far less than the tradesmen whose 
business was their means of living, never occurred 
to Harry. These were “ debts of honor,” he con- 
sidered, aping the words of his companions, with- 
out considering that all debt is a dishonor. 

Very often the pleasure of the afternoon, what- 
ever it might be, kept Harry away from home at 
the dinner hour ; and after dining at a restaurant, 
the evening was usually spent abroad at the opera 
or in the rooms of his friends. Sometimes it smote 
the lad’s conscience to find his father at a late 
hour still toiling over papers, and to meet a wel- 
come that was a tacit reproach for his long absence. 

At such times he would renew an oft-repeated 
offer of assistance, that was refused with quiet words 
of thanks, and a gentle assurance that Mr. West- 
brooke was pleased to know his son found enjoy- 
ment. “ For it is dull here, Harry,” he would say 
with a weary air ; “ and if I, engrossed in business, 
find it so, it must be far worse for you, who are 
young and seek pleasure. Enjoy yourself while 
you can.” 

It was after some such speech as this that 
Harry one evening ventured to remind his father 
of a promise of money made nearly a week previ- 


A STRUGGLE AND A VICTORY. . 165 

ous, and was surprised at the reluctance of the 
reply. 

“ I can let you have it, Harry, but I wish you 
would make it go as far as you can.” 

Harry blushed like a girl, but his customary 
frankness impelled him at once to acknowledge the 
truth, however painful. “ I am very sorry, sir, but 
unfortunately I owe the whole of it.” 

“ Owe it ! Have I really kept you so long out 
of pocket-money, my son ?” 

“You have always been liberal sir, but — I — you 
see, sir, we plaj games of chance and skill, and stake 
some trifling sum to make it interesting, and — ” 

“ Gamble !” 

Mr. Westbrooke spoke the word with a short, 
stern emphasis that fairly startled Harry; but a 
moment later his face grew deadly pale, and he 
murmured, 

“ Boys and men, merchants and gamesters, spec- 
ulators and pleasure-seekers, gamblers all. Harry, 
my boy, stop it now, if you would ever prosper. I 
will not blame you, but rather censure my own 
neglect in not having spoken to you before.” 

“But, father, please let me explain. I do not 
associate with gamblers. My friends are all gen- 
tlemen.” 


ALMOST A MAN. 


1 66 

“ That may be. But when you play games of 
chance or skill for money, you are gamblers, every 
one of you.” 

“ It is only to give excitement to the game.” 

“ I understand that perfectly, and also the dan- 
ger of such amusement as needs this artificial stim- 
ulus to excitement. Dice and cards, Harry, have 
been the ruin of hundreds of men — are the bane of 
hundreds of youth. Better shun them entirely.” 

No answer from Harry, who hesitated to bind 
himself still further by spoken promises. There 
had been no word spoken to appeal to his higher 
test of wrong-doing, and he was not quite willing to 
resign amusements of which he was becoming 
fonder and fonder. Already he had been compli- 
mented by older men upon his cool calculations and 
brilliant play ; and if he lost sometimes, he was as 
likely to win at other times. 

“ Make me out a list of your gambling debts,” 
Mr. Westbrooke said, “and I will pay them. But 
do not let me hear of any more.” * 

Still no word from Harry, rebellious now under 
what he considered unjust harshness. 

“ Have you other debts ?” his father asked pres- 
ently. 

“ Not in my own name, sir. I have added to 


A STRUGGLE AND A VICTORY. 167 

your bills at ,” and he named several places 

where Mr. Westbrooke was accustomed to deal, 
“ but not very heavily.” 

There was an interval of silence after this, Mr. 
Westbrooke turning over the leaves of a pocket- 
diary, while Harry went slowly to his own room. 
He was angry and miserable, deeply hurt by his 
father’s reproaches, while considering them severe 
and unjust. 

“All gentlemen play billiards and cards,” he 
said to himself, “ and father never forbade my doing 
so. Walter and the others laugh at me now be- 
cause I will not drink or smoke ; and if I refuse to 
play, I might as well shut myself up, and not go near 
the others at all. Why, even at the Debating Club 
we end the evening with billiards or chess.” 

He lighted the gas in his room, and his eyes fell 
upon the Bible, his aunt Ellen’s gift. He seemed 
to see her sweet face and hear her earnest words 
as she begged of him to make the book his best 
counsellor and friend, to study and cherish its 
teachings, and keep his life and heart pure by its 
lessons. 

“ I am not in a very Christian frame of mind,” 
he thought, touched with quick self-reproach ; “ an- 
gry with my own father because he wants me to 


ALMOST A MAN. 


1 68 

abandon a dangerous and expensive amusement. 
How seldom he has reproved me in my life ! And 
he has never denied me a gratification, even if un- 
reasonable. He must have felt my danger very 
keenly to have spoken so sternly. And yet I am 
angry !” 

He covered his face with his hands, deeply 
ashamed of his petulance and ingratitude. Because 
he was fond of expensive pleasure, anxious to stand 
well in the eyes of his associates, he had been an- 
gry because his father reproved him — irritated be- 
cause his pleasure was designated by its true name. 

Humbled, he knelt down and lifted his heart in 
silent prayer for forgiveness for his ungrateful and 
unfilial thoughts, and for strength to keep any prom- 
ise his father might require of him. 

“ I promised Aunt Ellen to be a comfort and 
companion to father,” he thought, “and I leave 
him alone evening after evening, and then make 
him unhappy by unreasonable demands and sulki- 
ness when reproved. I will try, God helping me, 
to keep my promise better after to-night.” 

He looked into the sittingroom, and seeing his 
father was still there, went slowly forward, and took 
a chair beside the table. Mr. Westbrooke looked 
up presently, and said kindly, 


A STRUGGLE AND A VICTORY. 169 

“ I thought you went to bed, Harry. It is very 
late.” 

“ I know that, father, but I could not go to bed 
knowing I had displeased you.” 

An expression of the most tender affection 
came upon Mr. Westbrooke’s face. “You are too 
old to be treated like a child, Harry,” he said, “and 
I think you understand perfectly that my fear for 
you is for your own future welfare. I have seen so 
much of the danger of card and dice playing, so 
many young lives wrecked by a gambler s tempta- 
tions, that I shudder to think of my son standing 
upon the verge of such a precipice.” 

“ But, father, a friendly game of cards seems to 
me an innocent way to pass an hour or two pleas- 
antly.” 

“A friendly game of cards opens the way to 
the gambling-saloon. You play only with your 
friends, and your gains and losses are mere trifles — 
matters of courtesy and honor in payment. But, 
Harry, my son, I tell you that the most dangerous 
of all walls for shelter is the wall called ‘ Modera- 
tion.’ It is the moderate drinker, who boasts of 
taking his glass of wine at dinner, never drinking to 
excess, never tempted to drunkenness, who holds 
up the most dangerous example to young followers. 
22 


Almost a Man. 


170 


ALMOST A MAN. 


They shrink with disgust from the bloated, reeling 
loafer who begs a dime to spend in a low drinking 
saloon ; but they feel it no degradation to imitate 
the respectable, well-dressed man who drinks in 
moderation. S3 the first glass is taken, and too 
late they find they have not the power to stop ex- 
actly upon the dividing line ; they are in a path 
that ends in self-tuin. So it is with the love of 
play. It is started by gentlemen who would be 
horrified at any attempt to cheat, or indignant at 
being called gamblers. The stakes are trifling, 
merely to give interest to the amusement, and high 
play is not at first indulged in. But presently the 
fever of excitement rages higher, the stakes are 
increased, the interest becomes almost a frenzy, 
and the players are drawn into the vortex that 
makes gamblers. Is it not so ?” 

The question was asked abruptly, and Harry 
was obliged to answer, “ It is so, sir.” 

For his father’s words recalled many scenes in 
his friends’ rooms that, in some low gambling- 
saloon might have called for the interference of the 
police. Angry words had raged, accusations of 
false play had been made, fierce discussions had taken 
the place of polite remonstrance, and more than once 
blows had seemed almort inevitable. Being the 


A STRUGGLE AND A VICTORY. 171 

only one of the party not heated by wine, Harry had 
acted as peacemaker on more than one occasion. 

He knew too, that his own love of play had 
greatly increased in the last few weeks, and that he 
was often so carried away by either the chagrin of loss 
or the exultation of gain, that he was willing to risk all 
he owned for the moment, upon the turning of a 
card, or the rattle of a dice-box. It proved also his 
own growing infatuation, that even now he was re- 
luctant to abandon the amusement. 

Mr. Westbrooke understood his hesitation, and 
said gently, but firmly, “It will not do to tamper 
with it, Harry. Give it up, at once and for ever, if 
you would really avoid its perils. You think I am 
unreasonable, after leaving your will unchecked all 
your life, to put so decided a bar upon your incli- 
nations in a moment. And I do not hold myself 
blameless. But if in carelessness or engrossing 
thought I saw you walk to the very verge of a dan- 
gerous cliff, should I hesitate then, because you 
were in more imminent danger, to pluck you back, 
even if my sudden force gave you sharp pain ?” 

“ I know that you are right,” Harry said frank- 
ly, but speaking slowly and reluctantly, “and I 
know too, that you are more than indulgent to me, 
to reason with me, instead of exercising your au- 


172 


ALMOST A MAN. 


thority, and commanding me to cease to play. But 
it involves more than the mere giving up of dice or 
cards.” 

“In what way, Harry ?” 

“ I promised Aunt Ellen to leave wine and to- 
bacco untouched, because,” and the lad crimsoned 
painfully, “ I found my senses leaving me more 
than once, and she knew it.” 

“ But you have kept your promise,” Mr. West- 
brooke said anxiously. 

“ I have kept my promise, but I have had to run 
a gauntlet of ridicule.” 

“ I understand.” 

“ And now, if I refuse to play, all the old taunts 
about my Puritanical strictness will be revived. 
You know, father,” the lad cried in a sudden burst 
of boyish confidence, “they are all older than I am, 
and consider it rather a favor to have me with 
them. If I attempt to control the amusements, or 
set myself up as above them in any way, I might as 
well cease to go with them at all.” 

“ Perhaps that would be the better way.” 

“ I have made no other friends for a long time. 
If Jack Raymond drops me, I cannot well go to the 
boat-club, and I would not care to go to the base- 
ball grounds without Walter Meredith.” 


A STRUGGLE AND A VICTORY. 


73 


“ Still, my boy, if the requirements of their so- 
ciety lead you into the formation of dangerous and 
vicious habits, you had better give them up.” 

It was a dreary prospect to a boy suddenly de- 
prived of his home and such companionship as it af- 
forded, to be asked to also give up his entire circle 
of friends. Harry’s face was very long as he said, 
“ I will do whatever you require, father.” 

“That is a brave boy,” said his father. “Be- 
lieve me, I am more reluctant to ask you to resign 
any pleasure than you are to grant my request. 
But we are talking too long. Good-night, my son.” 
And the warm pressure of his father’s hand, the 
cordial tone of his voice, somewhat repaid Harry 
for his sacrifice. He went to his own room, more 
at ease in his conscience, but he missed the real 
comfort that his aunt Ellen had always left with 
him. 

For the sake of avoiding loss, for the worldly 
and moral danger, his father had spoken against 
the habit of play. To please his father only, 
Harry had determined to separate himself from 
his companions. But there was not the deep 
abiding sense of comfort he felt when, after Aunt 
Ellen’s gentle remonstrances, she pointed out to 
him where he offended his Maker in disobeying his 


174 


ALMOST A MAN. 


laws, and then led him by her earnest pleadings 
to resign his pursuit of pleasure, not from expedien- 
cy, not from fear of mortal peril, but for Christ’s 
sake, to please his Heavenly Father by obedience 
to his will. But now, keener than the fear of his 
companions’ ridicule, sharper than the sense of 
personal sacrifice, awoke in his heart a sense of the 
sin of his recent course, and of the peril of intimacy 
with irreligious associates. He also felt more deep- 
ly than ever before a yearning for sympathy from 
his father in his endeavor to lead a Christian life, 
to meet the requirements of a consistent follower of 
the Redeemer. 

There was a sorer consciousness of utter lone- 
liness in the lad’s heart when he knelt for his even- 
ing prayer than he had ever felt in his short life 
before. His mother’s death, his aunt’s absence, the 
loss of his dearly-loved little sister, were all lighter 
burdens than this want of sympathy with his fa- 
ther, in what he felt was a matter of the deepest im- 
port to him for life and for eternity. 

But this earthly support and help failing him 
Harry turned with a pleading prayer to that Father 
who never fails his children, who calls them to him 
through all temptation and trial, and sets a never- 
failing light to guide their faltering steps, a 


A STRUGGLE AND A VICTORY. 


175 


sure staff to support their wavering hearts. He 
prayed fervently, yet half fearing that he might be 
wanting in filial reverence, as he implored that the 
heart of his father also might be turned to his God, 
and that their earthly companionship might be en- 
riched by a spiritual sympathy and mutual support. 


176 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

NEW PROSPECTS FOR HARRY. 

The following day, when Harry came in from a 
brisk walk in a chill October air, with nearly an 
hour stijl to spare before dinner, he was surprised 
to find his father in the sittingroom, evidently wait- 
ing for his return. A fire was lighted for the first 
time in the open grate, and gave a cheery home- 
look to the room, very pleasant to meet. 

“ I thought we would need a fire this evening, 
Harry,” Mr. Westbrooke said, “if you are not 
going out.” 

“ I have written a note to excuse myself for 
breaking my engagement for this evening,” Harry 
replied, determined not to think regretfully of the 
euchre party he had promised to join. “I must 
meet the Raymonds and Walter once or twice more 
to pay my obligations, but I will not tax you again 
for — gambling debts.” 

It was not easy to say the two last words ; but 
Harry did not want for moral courage, and having 
determined to look the temptation full in the face 
he also resolutely called it by its right name. 


% 







NEW PROSPECTS FOR HARRY. 177 

“ I wanted to talk with you, Harry,” Mr. West- 
brooke said presently, as his son came from his own 
bedroom, divested of hat, boots, and overcoat, and 
settled himself in an easy-chair, with his slippered 
feet crossed before the fireplace, “ about some 
changes I propose to make for your future.” 

Harry’s heart bounded. He had more than 
once intimated his own preference for a European 
trip instead of a college course. Was his sacrifice 
of the night before to be rewarded by his father’s 
sanction to a year or two of foreign travel, with a 
private tutor? The look of eager expectation in 
the young face smote Mr. Westbrooke with a sharp 
pain, and dictated the next words he spoke : “ I am 
afraid my proposal will not please you, Harry, at 
first, but I hope to convince you that it is the best 
plan to adopt.” 

The eager look faded to one of respectful atten- 
tion ; but Harry did not speak. 

“As you are to be a man of business, my son,” 
Mr. Westbrooke said, “ I think it will be better to 
give up the college course, and enter at once upon 
business education under my own tuition. That is, 
to begin to help me in such leisure hours as you 
have, and in your intervals of study.” 

“ Leaving the Academy ?” asked Harry faintly. 
23 


Almost a Man. 


i 7 8 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“Leaving the Academy in December. Your 
tuition is paid for up to Christmas. You have 
already what is considered a good education, Harry, 
and you will not need a course of classic study to 
be my assistant.” 

He did not say partner, but Harry was too 
much stunned to notice the omission. It was not 
merely that all his schemes and plans for actual 
study were made useless, that the lad listened in 
dismay to this change of plan. That was painful ; 
but the proposal to enter upon a business life at 
once was far more so. Such of the dry details as 
Harry had seen, in some few hours’ writing for his fa- 
ther, had revived all his first disgust against business. 

He had thought of the proposed partnership as 
a necessary stepping-stone to the enjoyment of 
greater luxury and wealth than he had ever yet 
possessed ; had built boyish air-castles of future 
eminence as a great merchant, a millionaire, living 
upon Fifth avenue in even greater magnificence 
than his father had done. He had never calculated 
to grow old and careworn in the pursuit of this 
wealth, but upon the foundation that his father had 
built to enter upon schemes and speculations only 
to be controlled by great capitalists, and enjoy his 
income as well as increase it. 


NEW PROSPECTS FOR HARRY. 


179 


And even this visionary prospect of a business 
life Harry set far ahead, after college-days were 
over, after a trip to Europe, after, weary with study 
and sight-seeing, he would be willing to enter upon 
more serious duties. 

To have all these pleasant dreams so rudely 
broken; to be told his business education must 
commence at seventeen, fairly staggered the lad. 
He did not speak; but the tender, sad eyes watch- 
ing his face read its varying expression very clearly. 

Every word Mr. Westbrooke spoke was well 
weighed, and spoken with slow emphasis, and also 
with the painful consciousness that he was not 
dealing frankly with his son, but keeping back the 
strongest motive for his resolution. “ I think you 
will find much of the work very easy,” he said, “ for 
I notice in what you have already done for me that 
you write rapidly and accurately, and are quick in 
the use of figures — both good foundations for a good 
bookkeeper or clerk.” 

“ Clerk !” Harry cried, aghast. 

“You will need a clerk’s education,” said Mr. 
Westbrooke, “ before you will be fit to fill any re- 
sponsible position. And Poulson is the very man 
to give you a good start. Do they teach book- 
keeping at the Academy ?’ 


i8o 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“Yes, sir, for those who wish to learn it,” said 
Harry, in a proud, hurt tone. “ I never supposed 
you wished me to enter that class, and Mr. Huber 
never asked me to do so.” 

“You had better join it to-morrow. Learn 
what you can there, even if you neglect some of the 
other studies. You are a good French scholar ?” 

“ They tell me so, sir.” 

“That is well. Modern languages are always 
useful. And now tell me what spare time you 
have while you remain at school.” 

“ I study about two hours at home, sir. It 
makes no difference to me whether I take after- 
noon or evening hours.” 

“ Let it be afternoon then for the present, and I 
will employ your evenings.” 

Harry assented, and then looked into the glow- 
ing coals as if to read there the motives for such a 
sudden overthrow of all the schemes before made 
for the future. Never guessing the true motive, 
which he was soon to learn, he thought he saw one 
that hurt his pride, and made him feel with keen 
mortification that he was not fully and heartily 
trusted. Having given his promise the night be- 
fore without reservation ; having strengthened his 
resolution by prayer, he felt hurt beyond expression 


NEW PROSPECTS FOR HARRY. 181 

as he became more and more certain that his father 
doubted either the sincerity of his words or his 
ability to resist temptation. As the thought press- 
ed more heavily, he said very abruptly, “ Father !” 

“ Well ?” asked his father, startled at the rebel- 
lious face suddenly confronting him. 

“ Is all this new plan to keep me out of mis- 
chief ?” 

“To keep you out of mischief ?” said Mr. West- 
brooke, honestly puzzled. 

“To employ my time so fully that there will be 
no opportunity to break the promises I made you 
last night ?” 

“ Harry, I am afraid you are a self-tormentor. 
Do not cultivate a suspicious heart, my son.” 

Then more kindly the father said, stretching 
out his hand, “ I never doubted you for one mo- 
ment, Harry, or thought of giving you any further 
safeguard than your own principles and resolu- 
tion.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” Harry said, his face brighten- 
ing. “I could not bear to think you felt the need 
of tying me up like a child. And now that we have 
spoken of it, I think I do need just such a safe- 
guard as employment will be to me. My time 
hangs upon my hands very heavily, and will do so 


ALMOST A MAN. 


182 

more than ever, if I cut myself off from my old 
associates.” 

“ I do not want to overtax you.” 

“ But I will be glad to help you, if I can. Since 
we are one day to be Westbrooke & Son,” said 
Harry, with an assumed air of importance, “ we will 
make the junior partner a member of the firm capa- 
ble of lightening somewhat the labors of the senior. 
I am not given to sentiment, father, but I know 
how hard you have worked for all of us, and I in- 
tend, as soon as I am capable, to relieve you of 
some of your cares and labors.” 

Mr. Westbrooke smiled faintly, but did not re- 
ply at once to this little outburst of boyish enthu- 
siasm, and Harry, a little chilled by his reception 
of words he intended to express a hearty desire to 
do his whole duty, stared into the fire again, won- 
dering if he had made himself ridiculous. 

“ I dare say father is laughing at me,” he 
thought, looking shyly into a face that certainly 
had no merriment in it. “ The idea of a boy of 
seventeen thinking he can carry any of the business 
schemes and cares that so harass an old and expe- 
rienced merchant. How conceited he must think 
I am ! And I meant to show him that I was not 
reluctant to fall in with all his wishes ! How dread- 


NEW PROSPECTS FOR HARRY. 


1 33 


fully pale he is, and how old he looks ! It must 
be grieving for mother and for home. I wish I 
could really be of any use to him, could really com- 
fort him.” 

And with his whole heart going out to his fa- 
ther, Harry caught his eye, and met a smile that 
had no touch of ridicule, but was full of tenderest 
affection. Only two words followed the smile, as 
Mr. Westbrooke said, “ My son !” 

It was his favorite form of address, and from 
his lips was like a caress, it was so calmly tender. 
Harry knew when he heard it that his father had ac- 
cepted his outburst of affection and self-denial in the 
same spirit that had prompted him to speak. “ I have 
some very complicated affairs pressing upon me just 
now,” said Mr. Westbrooke presently, “ in which I 
need unquestioning assistance. Reasons which I 
cannot now explain prevent me from trusting the ac- 
counts and papers I am working upon to Poulson, 
and he would be offended if I took an inexperienced 
clerk into my confidence. I do not wish to hurt 
the feelings of an old and faithful clerk, such as 
Poulson has been for years. So, if you will lend 
me your mind and fingers for a few evenings, Har- 
ry, you can be of material assistance to me.” 

“ I will do all I can, gladly,” was the prompt re- 


ALMOST A MAN. 


184 

ply, “and I will join the bookkeeping class to-mor- 
row, and drop Greek for the present.” 

“Yes, that will be best. The dinner-bell! I 
suppose you have a good appetite after your walk.” 

“It is generally in pretty good order,” said 
Harry, smiling, “ though Mrs. Dalton cannot quite 
equal Adolph.” 

“ One seldom meets French cooking in a board- 
inghouse, I imagine, and simpler food is better for 
young folks. I think one-half of Etta’s improved 
health may be traced to plain country fare. Did 
you have a letter to-day ?” 

“Yes, sir ! Both Aunt Ellen and Etta are well. 
Etta has been taking nutting excursions with Da- 
vid, and finding what she calls ‘ chessnus in sticky 
balls/ translated by Aunt Ellen into chestnut 
burrs.” 

“ Those old chestnut-trees !” said Mr. West- 
brooke, “they were the delight of my boyhood, 
Harry. Many a day I have spent nutting, with my 
slice of bread and butter, apple-turnover and cook- 
ies taken out of my bag or basket to make room for 
the nuts. You city boys miss many a delight! 
To think that you are seventeen and never drove 
oxen nor fished with a crooked pin, took horses to 
water nor waded after pond-lilies. We must go to 


NEW PROSPECTS FOR HARRY. 185 

Fairhaven, my son, and see Etta next summer, and 
I will show you all the spots your father loved 
years ago. Ellen tells me there is very little 
change in the old place, though all my boyhood’s 
friends are dead or gone away.” 

They were ready for dinner as Mr. Westbrooke 
spoke, and Harry wondered what old nurse’s story 
was pressing on his mind, to make him remember 
having heard that old men, when life was nearly 
over, always recalled longingly the scenes of their 
childhood. It might have been the evident feeble- 
ness of his father’s step, the stoop in his shoulders, 
the haggard expression of his eyes, that so roused 
the boy’s fears ; but the dread that had occurred to 
him frequently in the last few weeks was deepen- 
ed by those few regretful words, suggested by Et- 
ta’s baby pleasures. 

As soon as dinner was over, Mr Westbrooke, 
opening his secretary, took out some papers cover- 
ed with figures wonderfully like schoolboy prob- 
lems in arithmetic. 

Selecting several sheets, he explained to Har- 
ry the way in which the calculations were to 
be compared and proved correct or erroneous, 
but he made no explanation of the purpose for 
which they were required. With earnest wish to 

Almost a Man. 24 


tS6 


ALMOST A MAN. 


be of use, Harry worked conscientiously and steadi- 
ly until the clock struck ten, when his father put 
his hand over the last calculation. “ I will release 
you now, Harry,” he said. “ It is late enough for 
young folks to work.” 

And Harry, with a long yawning stretch, rose 
to his feet, thinking of two hours’ study still before 
him. “ I wont bother father with that,” he thought, 
“ but to-morrow I will get the lessons out of the 
way before dinner.” 

“ Are they right, sir ?” he asked, seeing that Mr. 
Westbrooke was examining his work. 

“ Yes, very well done. They will lighten this 
evening’s work very much. Thank you, and good- 
night.” 

“ Good-night !” said Harry, going into his own 
room, and closing the door. But, when his lessons 
were learned, and he turned off the gas, before 
closing his eyes, he could see by the bright light 
striking through the ventilator over his door, that 
his father was in the sittingroom still, and proba- 
bly writing busily as usual. 


MORE CHANGES. 


1 87 


CHAPTER XV. 

MORE CHANGES. 

For more than a month Harry found all his 
evening hours fully occupied in assisting his father, 
and still worked busily at his own studies in the 
hour before dinner. His old companions shrugged 
their shoulders and wondered what new freak 
Westbrooke had ; but they gave him only a passing 
annoyance. 

Blindly as he worked, giving his father, as re- 
quested, unquestioning obedience and assistance, 
ignorant as he was of business, Harry was far too 
intelligent not to understand very soon that there 
was trouble brooding over his father’s business. 
Night after night, when the first morning hours 
were striking, the lad could hear his father’s steps 
as he paced up and down the sittingroom, absorbed 
in painful thought. 

He knew too, that the many long calculations 
submitted to him represented investments in spec- 
ulations that were falling one’ after another into 
ruin. What proportion of the wealth he had once 


1 88 


ALMOST A MAN. 


believed inexhaustible was so involved, it was im- 
possible for an inexperienced boy to estimate, but 
that there was heavy loss involved, he could not 
avoid seeing. His father gave him no confidence, 
however, when placing his evening’s work before 
him, and it was contrary to Harry’s habit of re- 
spectful deference to ask any questions. 

But, boy as he was, he could not but see that 
the mental anxiety his father carried so silently 
was seriously undermining his health. He had 
grown old faster in the last six months than in any 
previous six years of his prosperous life, and Harry 
longed for the power to comfort him by sympathy, 
if not by more effective help. Many nights, hearing 
the slow footfall passing his door in the weary, mo- 
notonous tramp, to and fro, he longed to go out and 
ask to share the burden pressing so sorely upon his 
father’s heart and mind. But the natural timidity 
of his years, the fear of seeming intrusive, held him 
back, and he would lie quiet in earnest, silent pray- 
er for the right path to be shown him, to lead to a 
more perfect sympathy with the parent he loved. 

November was over, and the days of December, 
short and cold, were closing in early, when one 
evening, after dinner, Mr. Westbrooke declined his 
son’s offer of the customary assistance. “You can 


MORE CHANGES . 189 

wait here if you will,” he said, “ in case I need you ; 
but just now I must write some letters.” 

One of these, Harry could not avoid seeing, was 
directed to his aunt Ellen, and although it was not 
very long, it occupied much time. Mr. Westbrooke 
wrote deliberately at all times, but over the words 
to his sister his pen lingered long, while with his 
head resting upon his left-hand he sank into deep 
re very, his face marked with signs of suffering, 
painfully apparent to the young watcher, who, un- 
obtrusive and silent, could not give full attention 
to any book or thought, though he would not inter- 
rupt his father. 

But after his dismissal at ten o’clock, he could 
not rest. Without undressing, he turned out his 
gas, and sat upon the side of the bed, too anxious 
to sleep, and yet unwilling to have any appearance 
of watching his father. 

The moments passed slowly, and Harry was 
beginning to feel drowsy, when he was roused to 
perfect wakefulness by a low moan from the sit- 
tingroom. It was a sound full of misery even more 
painful to hear than the groan that proceeds from 
physical pain, and Harry softly opened his door 
and looked out. 

Mr. Westbrooke was seated exactly where he 


ALMOST A MAN. 


190 

had left him, but his head was bent upon his out- 
stretched arms, and he was shaken by tearless sobs. 
Harry could bear it no longer. “ If I am not yet a 
man,” he thought, “I am his son, and all he has 
here to comfort him.” Softly he crossed the room, 
and Mr. Westbrooke, absorbed in his own unhappy 
thoughts, was unaware of his presence, till he felt 
a loving arm steal around his neck, and lifted his 
head to see Harry standing beside him, his face 
beautiful in its earnest love and sympathy. 

“ Father,” he said, his voice trembling with emo- 
tion, “let me share your trouble. If I cannot help 
you, let me at least bear something of the burden 
that is killing you. I know I am young, inexpe- 
rienced, and of little use to you; but we are all 
alone in the world, and I cannot bear to see you so 
unhappy.” 

“ My son !” 

The old tender words of affection brought the 
tears to Harry’s eyes, but he fought them back 
bravely. “ I think,” he said, “ that you are afraid 
of paining me, father, that you are silent only to 
spare me.” 

“ Ah, my boy, my boy !” said Mr. Westbrooke 
sadly, “ may you never carry the burden of remorse 
that I carry to-night. For your sake, Harry, to 


MORE CHANGES. 


191 

start my son in the business with a large capital 
and a great show, I broke through the rules of my 
business life, and invested in promising specula- 
tions. Then, finding some of these disastrous, I 
plunged deeper and deeper into what is only busi- 
ness gambling. While reproaching and warning 
you, Harry, I have walked with open eyes into the 
same ruinous vortex.” 

“And lost heavily,” said Harry, very pale, but 
bravely confronting this confirmation of his fears. 

“ Heavily !” said Mr. Westbrooke, in a hoarse 
voice. “ I have lost all. I am a ruined man.” 

Harry gave an involuntary cry of dismay. This 
was far worse than his most gloomy anticipations. 
All. What did that mean ? Absolute poverty ! 
Youth’s vivid imagination pictured the worst — a 
struggle for the very necessaries of life. He could 
not speak, but his father, having once broken 
through the long silence, was relieved now by 
opening his heart fully to his only son. 

“You need not feel it very deeply, as yet, Har- 
ry,” he said, “for I shall send you to Fairhaven. I 
wrote to your aunt Ellen this evening, for, my boy, 
I cannot keep off the crash another day. The price 
of the house, the proceeds of the daily orders, every 
available dollar has gone to meet pressing demands. 


ALMOST A MAN. 


and to-morrow I must speak plainly, and say I can- 
not meet my liabilities.” 

“ That means — ” faltered Harry. 

“ I must fail ! But I am no coward. I will 
meet my creditors fairly, give up all I have, and 
start, at seventy-two, upon a new life.” 

“ But not alone,” said Harry, standing erect and 
manly ; “ your son is beside you, father.” 

“ Ah, Harry, you are too young yet to take up 
the burden of life.” 

“ I am seventeen, sir, almost a man ! Let me 
put this letter in the grate, father, and stay with 
you. I will not be a burden upon you. I can 
surely find some employment in this great city.” 

“ I do not think you fully understand me yet, 
Harry,” said Mr. Westbrooke sadly ; “ I must give 
up these rooms, and live in some cheap boarding- 
house until I can arrange my affairs. You will be 
far more comfortable with your aunt Ellen and 
Etta.” 

Aunt Ellen and Etta ! Can you appreciate the 
sacrifice Harry Westbrooke made when he reso- 
lutely turned his thoughts from the homesick long- 
ing he had felt for weeks for the sight of those dear 
faces, to Say, very quietly, but firmly, “ My comfort 
should not be the first consideration at such a time, 


MORE CHANGES. 


193 


father. If you tell me that I shall be an annoyance 
or hindrance to you in any way, I will accept your 
decision and go to Fairhaven, hoping to be of use 
to you in the future. But if I can help you, or even 
be any comfort to you, I hope you will let me stay. 
I am not such a baby that I shall fret for dainty 
food and fine rooms.” 

“ Ah, Harry, you have no experience of hard- 
ship.” 

“ And because you have made my life easy and 
happy, I am to run away and leave you to bear your 
troubles alone! Father,” and the boy’s arm once 
more stole round his father’s neck, and his voice 
took the coaxing tone in which he had petitioned 
for all childhood’s favors, “ let me stay with you.” 

Mr. Westbrooke did not answer at once. It 
had given him the only comfort he had in those 
troubled weeks to feel that, if the crash could not 
be averted, his sister’s small fortune was safe, and 
would give a home to his children. In the quiet 
home at Fairhaven Harry could accustom himself 
to the idea of a life of self-dependence, and gradu- 
ally lose those habits of luxury that had been cus- 
tomary from his infancy. It was the sole rest in 
the old merchant’s thought of the gloomy work be- 
fore him. And yet the pressure of those loving 
25 


Almost a Man. 


194 


ALMOST A MAN. 


arms, the sight of that earnest face, the sound of 
the pleading voice, proved irresistible, for presently 
Mr. Westbrooke said, “ So far from being an an- 
noyance to me, Harry, you will be more comfort 
than I can tell you, if only by being near me. I 
am an old man to be left utterly alone.” 

“ Then you will let me stay ?” 

" As long as you are contented.” 

“Thank you. You will not find me adding to 
your troubles by complaints. It may be that we 
will not find matters so bad as you fear.” 

“ Ah, Harry, do not indulge in false hopes. The 
fears are certainties now. But I think that I can 
save my good name, boy ; and perhaps, if allow- 
ed time, I can start again where I started many 
long years ago. It will be up-hill work, and I am 
not so strong as I was in those days. Yet” — and 
already his tone was more hopeful, having spoken 
the worst — “ it may be, Harry, that I can train my 
son to carry on the old establishment, though not 
as I hoped to start him. You have a good clear 
head, Harry, and quick fingers. You will start, 
even without one dollar, with more cheering pros- 
pects than your father did. It is hard, Harry, very 
hard, after more than fifty years of toil and success, 
to see all my prosperity slip by me. Hardest of all 


MORE CHANGES . 


195 


to think that I have impoverished my children. 
What have I done to be so punished ?” 

“ Aunt Ellen says,” said Harry, trembling a lit- 
tle at his own temerity, “ that earthly afflictions are 
not sent as punishments but as God’s messengers.” 

There was no answer, but Mr. Westbrooke 
turned his face aside, and covered it with his hand, 
while Harry, still timidly trying to recall his aunt's 
teachings, continued in a low voice : “ She says 
that when God sees that our hearts are turning from 
him, he sends the messenger of trouble, to make 
us feel our dependence upon his goodness, and 
warn us from the way of forgetfulness of him. 
Forgive me, father, if I remind you of what you 
must know better than I can tell you.” 

“ What else did your aunt say ?” asked a choked 
voice. 

“ She told me so many things to remember if 
ever trouble should come, father, that I could never 
repeat half of them. In our health and while there 
is only happiness in our lives, she said our Heav- 
enly Father’s blessings were often forgotten ; but 
that if we should bring our hearts to him then, we 
should find trouble was lighter when it came, be- 
cause we should know it was sent in love and not 
in anger.” 


196 


ALMOST A MAN. 


In love ! Mr. Westbrooke shuddered as the boy 
spoke. How had he treated his Heavenly Father’s 
love in the long years of manhood, when he had 
turned away from all holy thought or duty, to give 
his life to the gathering up of that wealth now gone 
from him. If indeed affliction was God’s messen- 
ger to draw wayward hearts to him, surely the 
strongest of all pleas must move the old merchant’s 
heart : for the idol he had worshipped through life 
lay crushed and ruined at his feet ; the service of 
Mammon had proved a broken reed. 

Would the service of God so fail him, if even 
at that late day, he entered into it, humbly and de- 
voutly ? Was his wife’s death one of the messen- 
gers sent, and his sister’s visit another, to win 
Harry’s young heart, and make him such a tender 
loving petitioner for his father’s soul ? Still keep- 
ing his face hidden, Mr. Westbrooke said, “ Do you 
find help in your Bible, Harry? Is it there you 
have sought strength for some . past trials you 
remember well ?” 

“ Yes, father.” 

“ Bring it here ! Read to me where you will.” 

With the most earnest prayer of his young life, 
Harry brought the sacred volume from his bed- 
room, and opened its pages. His voice was low, 


MORE CHANGES. 


1 97 


but sweet, and clear, as in the profound silence of 
the room, he read : 

“ I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from 
whence cometh my help. 

“ My help cometh from the Lord, which made 
heaven and earth. 

“ He will not suffer thy foot to be moved ; he 
that keepeth thee will not slumber. 

“ Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither 
slumber nor sleep. 

“ The Lord is thy keeper ; the Lord is thy shade 
upon thy right hand. 

“The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the 
moon by night. 

“ The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil ; 
he shall preserve thy soul. 

“The Lord shall preserve thy going out and 
thy coming in from this time forth, and even for 
evermore.” 

There was no word spoken when the words of 
the Psalmist were ended, and Harry could only see 
that his fathers hand still shaded his face, as he 
sat motionless in his arm chair. He hesitated to 
break the silence, but turned the leaves of his Bible 
with so gentle a hand, that their soft rustling was 
scarcely heard. It was very late, and before many 


198 


ALMOST A MAN. 


hours morning would come, and yet the boy hesi- 
tated to leave his father, although beginning to 
feel the great weariness that follows strong excite- 
ment. 

“ If only he would speak,” Harry thought. “ He 
is not asleep, for he moves his fingers.” 

Still the silence continued, until once more the 
lad’s own clear voice broke it, as from the page 
open before him he read : 

“ Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy- 
laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke 
upon you, and learn of me ; for I am meek ^nd low- 
ly in heart; and ye shall find rest unto your souls. 
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” 

Then having finished the lines, Harry rose, and 
pressing his lips silently upon the hand hanging 
over the arm of his father’s chair, went silently to 
his own room, closing the door after him. But the 
day dawn, while Harry slept peacefully, found Mr. 
Westbrooke with his son’s Bible open before him, 
seeking comfort and help where alone it could be 
found, humbling himself before his God, for his sin 
and ingratitude, imploring pardon through the Re- 
deemer, and praying earnestly that his afflictions 
might indeed lead him into the path of everlasting 
life. 


THE YOUNG CLERK'S TRIALS. 


199 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE YOUNG CLERICS TRIALS. 

Although the next few months did not posi- 
tively bring into reality Harry’s visions of actual 
poverty and distress, they were sore troubles to his 
sensitive nature. He left school at Christmas, and 
entered upon his duty of aiding his father, with his 
whole heart in his work, and his face ever brave 
and cheerful to meet that father’s anxious eyes. 
But every change that led down the ladder of for- 
tune was a blow keenly felt. 

Mr. Westbrooke made no reservations in his 
statement to his creditors, or his renunciation of 
his property. The expensive library was sold, the 
pictures and bronzes ; and with only their clothing, 
and some few trifles of personal property, father 
and son moved from their handsome rooms to a 
single one upon the third floor of a boardinghouse 
in Brooklyn, where economy was the chief recom- 
mendation. 

One grand sacrifice Harry made nobly — giving 
up all thought of Fairhaven, Aunt Ellen, and Etta, 
bravely to remain with his father; and had they 


200 


ALMOST A MAN. 


lived in a garret, the martyr spirit would probably 
have remained to support the boy. But after see- 
ing books, pictures, and bronzes carried away ; after 
packing up what remained and getting established 
in the new boardinghouse, life seemed to have sud- 
denly lost all savor. There was no further call for 
active sacrifice, no excitement to sustain the heart 
even in sore pain, only a dull routine of utterly dis- 
tasteful employment, and a life of entire discom- 
fort. 

Mr. Westbrooke’s creditors were willing to allow 
him a stated time to endeavor to meet his engage- 
ments, and the business was continued, but with 
greatly reduced capital, a much smaller corps of 
clerks and salesmen, and with the closest economy 
in every detail. Remorseful for that wild year of 
speculation that had wrecked the profits of a long 
life of steady business application, Mr. Westbrooke 
determined to redeem his fortunes, if possible, by 
taking up the self-denials of his youth, and working 
his way up once more over the same path then 
trodden so successfully. 

But he could not fully realize, with all his ten- 
der paternal love, how much more severe this disci- 
pline was to Harry than it had ever been to him. 
A robust, strong, country lad, accustomed to the 


THE YOUNG CLERICS TRIALS. 


201 


daily toil of farm-life, to early rising, to simple food, 
he had come to the city prepared to work his way 
to fortune. The sacrifices that he made were but 
the means of growth to his self-reliant spirit and 
his strong desire to win independence ; and as he 
grew older, the habits of economy were so firmly 
implanted in his life that they had ceased to be 
sacrifices. Indeed, he was spoken of more than 
once contemptuously as a man who hoarded his 
wealth, until after his marriage. 

Then, with his love for his beautiful wife, there 
sprang up a generosity that prompted him to lavish 
upon her and upon their children every luxury that 
wealth could give, every indulgence love could sug- 
gest. Yet, in the midst of all this splendor, Mr. 
Westbrooke himself was almost a hermit in his 
library, and would often rise from a table loaded 
with the choicest dainties, after eating sparingly of 
bread and milk, or a selection of such simple food 
as he could find. Therefore, when, after nearly 
twenty years of lavish expenditure, that was a de- 
light to himself only so far as it gave pleasure to 
those he loved, he again took up his old habits of 
close economy and steady industry, he simply fell 
back into a groove that fitted him well. 

But with Harry it was all new, distasteful, and 
23 


Almost a Man. 


202 


ALMOST A MAN. 


toilsome. Early rising was disagreeable to him ; 
he turned disgusted from their plain food, too often 
badly cooked ; he was cramped in the single, poor- 
ly-furnished room. Mr. Poulson, who undertook 
his business training, was an old man, with no am- 
bition beyond faithful service to his employer, a 
faultless set of books, and strict punctuality in ev- 
ery duty. 

Deeply aggrieved at Mr. Westbrooke’s with- 
drawal of all confidence in his disastrous specula- 
tions, sorely hurt at the downfall of the “ house ” 
that had so long kept up a prosperous career, the 
old man’s temper was sour, and he was harsh and 
exacting in his demands upon Harry, making scant 
allowance for the boy’s inexperience and former 
self-indulgent habits. 

The small countingroom, high desk, and dreary 
routine of monotonous duty, were hard to endure in 
place of the wide, airy schoolroom, and the hum of 
young voices. And the praises of all his teachers 
made Poulson’s continual fault-finding very much 
harder to endure. 

Yet Harry had a true manly spirit of self-re- 
spect; and having once taken up his task volun- 
tarily, he would not harass his father by complaints. 
He tried to learn all that was required of him well, 






























































































































THE YOUNG CLERICS TRIALS. 


203 


and his rapid penmanship and really accurate 
knowledge of figures made him far more valuable 
than Poulson would ever acknowledge. 

One word of cordial praise would have helped 
the lad immensely ; and had he known he was 
really extremely useful and learning his business 
rapidly, he would have been far more contented 
and spurred forward to still further efforts. 

But Poulson did not believe in “ making boys 
too conceited,” and his grumbling dampened all 
Harry’s ardor, and reduced his work to the level of 
drudgery. And when, weary and discouraged, he 
came to his room to spend the evenings, his father 
would again call upon him, and often in his ab- 
sorbed attention to the business in hand, utterly 
forget even to thank Harry for prompt and well- 
performed service. Straining every faculty to meet 
his new engagements, to bring his business up to 
its old standpoint, throwing his whole heart onc;e 
more into his work, Mr. Westbrooke also fell back 
into habits of deep thought, entirely forgetting, for 
the time being, even the existence of his son. 

Had Plarry been in an independent position, 
with certain daily service to render to a stranger 
for a stipulated salary, he could have better en 
dured the actual work performed, and felt the nat- 


204 


ALMOST A MAM. 


ural ambition to fill his position well and rise to a 
higher one. 

But he had no regular duty and no salary. 
Each day Poulson put before him the writing or 
accounts that seemed to him best fitted for the lad, 
or that best lightened his own work. Now it was 
a list of entries to be made in one of the great ledg- 
ers ; now bills to make out ; now invoices to be ver- 
ified and copied ; now long columns of figures to be 
footed up ; now papers to be compared : sometimes 
one class of work running on regularly for several 
days, sometimes a change every hour, and no ex- 
planation of either to the young clerk. And if he 
became bewildered, Poulson’s grumbling about “a 
whipper-snapper of a boy who does n’t know the 
multiplication-table,” was rather hard to endure by 
the head mathematician of the Academy. 

There was no loving mother to speak gentle 
words of encouragement, and Harry’s heart often 
failed him. But for that never-failing comfort he 
found in his morning and evening hour of reading 
and prayer, the lad’s courage must have given way 
in those dark winter days that followed the new 
year’s entrance. It made his discipline more se- 
vere that Mr. Westbrooke, after that one night of 
confidence, said no more to Plarry about his busi- 


THE YOUNG CLERK'S TRIALS . 


205 


ness perplexities or prospects, and the lad knew 
nothing of what clouds hung over the future, or 
what hopes there were to cheer them. 

Spring opened and a new difficulty arose. With 
a very natural desire to help in the close economy 
that he believed a necessity, seeing his father sub- 
mit uncomplainingly to the same privations that he 
himself endured — the single room, the coarse table, 
the utterly uncongenial society in the house — Har- 
ry had resolutely refrained from asking for any 
money, and carefully husbanded what his father 
from time to time placed in his hands. These 
sums were trifling, totally unlike the handsome 
allowances of pocket-money given him ever since 
he was able to carry a pocketbook; and Harry 
learned many hard lessons of self-denial in their 
use. It was a trifling matter to pass the jeweller’s 
store, the confectioner’s, and the fancygoods deal- 
er’s, where once he had been a welcome customer, 
spending freely and carelessly. But often the lad’s 
pampered stomach turned with absolute loathing 
from the food before him, and he sighed deeply as 
he thought a meal at a restaurant was quite out of 
his present reach. The bookstores were another 
great temptation, for Harry was fond of light as 
well as solid literature ; and although French nov- 


206 


ALMOST A MAN. 


els had been long before abandoned in disgust, 
there were constant tempting relays of new works 
that he would have greatly enjoyed in his few leis- 
ure hours. 

Worst of all, as the spring days opened, Harry 
found his summer wardrobe would not meet his 
present demands. “ Why need I have grown so ?” 
he thought ruefully, as he stood before the mirror, 
making a most remarkable display of ankles and 
wrists in a handsome suit he had entirely out- 
grown. “ Here are five suits, and not one that I 
can wear. I shall certainly melt in my heavy suit 
before many days, and I can’t bear to ask father for 
money. My shirts are in a bad way, too, and my 
washerwoman’s stitches look as if she sewed with 
a sail-needle. Heigho ! I have half a mind to go 
to Fairhaven,” he thought, “for I am not of any 
use here. Poulson finds everything I do altogether 
wrong, and talks to me as if I was little better than 
an idiot, though I do my very best. If I was care- 
less or stupid, I might hope to improve ; but when 
I do the best I can, and do not see the deficiencies, 
it is utterly hopeless to try ever to please him. If 
I had been offered a thousand dollars for the ac- 
counts he gave me to do to-day, I could not have 
tried any harder to have them right, made the col- 


THE YOUNG CLERK'S TRIALS. 207 

umns straighter, or taken more pains to have them 
neat. And if I had blotted and smeared every page, 
made every column foot up incorrectly, or gone to 
sleep over them, he could scarcely have found them 
worse. And he must know, after sitting at that 
desk more than twenty-five years, whether the work 
is well done or not. It is of no use to try ! I am 
just a bother and a hindrance in the office !” 

A bitter, humiliating reflection, when the begin- 
ning had been made with such a proud hope of be- 
ing so truly useful that his father need never em- 
ploy any other clerk in his place. 

“ And I am no comfort to father,” was the next 
forlorn thought. “ I do n’t believe he knows half 
the time whether I am in the room or not. If he 
wants me to write for him, I might as well be a 
copying-machine, for he just passes the papers over 
and takes them back, without one word of blame or 
praise. To be sure, he don’t find any fault, but 
that may be because he do n’t like to hurt my feel- 
ings. I dare say they are all wrong, too. I wish I 
had begun a poor boy. It is awfully hard to give 
up such a life as mine.” 

But here Harry gave himself a little moral sha- 
king : “ Repining,, man ! That wont do !” Yet he 
was too much depressed to rally at once, and pres- 


208 


ALMOST A MAN. 


ently a new train of thought started also a new hu- 
miliation. “That was a decided ‘cut’ of Ray- 
mond’s to-day ! Very pleasant, after the way he 
sought my acquaintance so long. I ’m more than 
thankful that father let me pay off all my debts to 
the fellows, but they needn’t be so very stiff. Of 
course the failure was known all over the city, and 
I ’m not the rich Mr. Westbrooke’s son any more ; 
but I could n’t have cut one of them if they were 
in mere money trouble. If I had disgraced myself, 
I should deserve it ; but because I am poor and 
slightly shabby, they find it convenient to avoid 
me, or, as Raymond did to-day, look straight into 
my face, as if he had never seen it before. Mere- 
dith dodges me. That is mean. I ’ve seen him 
dart into stores when he saw me coming, or see 
something to call his undivided attention in a win- 
dow. Bah ! He need n’t put himself out. I can 
build up as honorable a name as he can, yet, if I 
can’t rattle so much money in my pocket. And, 
by-the-way, Wiley ’s a good fellow. He met me as 
cordially — no, he met me far more cordially than 
ever he has done — yesterday, and was as delicate 
as possible in that little hint that he considered his 
purse his friend’s purse at all times. And now I 
think of it, he asked me, if he could ever serve me 


THE YOUNG CLERK'S TRIALS. 


209 


in a business way, to call on him. I wonder if he 
could get me something to do, some work that 
would be worth a salary, however small. I am not 
one bit of use to father, but if I could earn some- 
thing, I might take the expense of my clothes my- 
self, and save him a little.” 

This thought, once started, was encouraged, and 
Harry brightened under it. To be of some actual 
use, were it only in saving an expense, was far 
more cheering to contemplate than the doleful idea 
that he was only an annoyance in his father’s count- 
ing-room, tolerated in the vain hope that he might 
one day be of some service. 

“ I ’ll ask father about it as soon as he comes 
in,” thought Harry, who was alone for the evening, 
Mr. Westbrooke having gone over to New York 
upon business, “ and see if he is willing to have me 
speak to Wiley about it. Father works harder than 
ever, and yet he does not look half so sick and old 
as he did last fall. It must be because he has no 
doubt now, I think. He was trying to carry two 
loads, and now he has made his statements and 
started fresh. How hard that must be at his age ! 
Poor father! I wish I could really help him. Ten 
o’clock ! I might as well go to bed. I ’m too tired 
to start anything to do now, and I must hang up all 

Almost a Mm. 2 7 


210 


ALMOST A MAN. 


these clothes. It seems a pity to throw away those 
suits. There ’s not a break in one of them. How 
Meredith admired that gray check, and how I teased 
him about where I got the vest-pattern ! After 
all, I am glad that I am out of that set, even if my 
pride does suffer. I think God saw that I was be- 
ing ruined with idleness and love of pleasure, and 
wanted to show me some nobler end in life than 
balancing a billiard-cue daintily, or recollecting 
every card played in a game of whist. I begin to 
understand that a man may devote his energies to 
something more important than the cut of a vest or 
the pattern of a necktie. But I shall never like 
mercantile life, I know. Just as soon as I am a 
man, and have sufficient income to meet my daily 
expenses, I mean to study to be a lawyer or a phy- 
sician. I do believe,” and here the lad spoke aloud, 
standing erect in the small room, “I do believe it 
would kill me to spend my whole time in that count- 
ing-room, balancing ledgers and writing out ac- 
counts.” 

Then, half laughing at the sound of his own 
energetic voice breaking the silence, Harry picked 
up th£ clothes scattered on bed and chairs, shook 
them out with a mournful sigh, and hung them in 
the closet. 


THE YOUNG CLERK’S TRIALS . 


21 1 


When the room was neat again, suiting the 
fastidious taste that kept even the humble apart- 
ment in perfect order, Harry opened his Bible and 
read some of the Psalms. He was very fond of 
those glorious inspirations, seldom omitting to read 
one at least, even when he had been reading" other 
portions of the Holy Scriptures. And each night 
and morning he took one verse into his heart for 
his rest and comfort through his waking meditation 
before sleep, or during the frequently vexatious 
trials of his daytime duties. Poulson little dream- 
ed how often a hasty or disrespectful answer was 
driven back from Plarry’s lips by the earnest recal- 
ling of the passage committed to memory, that 
brought self-restraint, even if it was entirely inap- 
propriate to the occasion, for every word of Divine 
teaching reminded Harry of his Christian duty, al- 
though the special sense of those in his mind might 
be foreign to the emergency. Aunt Ellen had told 
him that this committing of one verse to memory 
morning and evening had been her own habit from 
childhood, till there was scarcely a text that was 
not familiar to her, or an occasion when she could 
not find in her memory the words of advice or com- 
fort to meet it. Harry remembered several times 
when, without seeming to preach to him, she had 


212 


ALMOST A MAN, i- 


spoken a few words that met exactly the need in 
his heart, brought him comfort in hours of sharp 
self-reproach, or gave him strength for some con- 
flict of inclination and duty. 

Upon this night, as he closed his Bible and 
knelt to pray, Harry repeated the verse he had 
chosen for the day: “The Lord redeemeth the 
soul of his servants, and none of them that trust in 
him shall be desolate.” 

It took the sting from all his thought of his 
apparently useless efforts, and the . slights of his 
former friends. This world’s trials humbly borne, 
there would be another life for the servants of the 
Lord, such as Harry tried meekly to be ; and sure 
of his trust in God, he rested upon the promise that 
he should never be desolate. 

It was doubly precious so to trust when he was 
so utterly alone in every worldly sense, with no 
hand to grasp his own in true cordial sympathy, no 
loving voice to greet his waking or his going to 
rest. For his father, never caressing, did not at all 
realize how the boy craved outward tokens of affec- 
tion, and withheld them, not from any want of love, 
but simply in utter ignorance of their value. 

Determined to retrieve-\his fallen fortunes, 
working for his son’s interest in the future firm far 


THE YOUNG CLERK'S TRIALS. 


213 


more than for his own sake, Mr. Westbrooke gave 
Harry constant thoughts of deepest affection. In 
his hours of prayer, now frequent and sincere, the 
names of his children were ever uttered in words of 
fervent supplication, and had an accusation been 
made of careless disregard for his son to the old 
merchant, it would have been met with a most 
truthful and astonished denial. Without exaggera- 
tion he could have said that he literally lived and 
worked solely for his children’s prosperity. Yet he 
never guessed how Harry sometimes longed to 
threw his arms around his neck and pour out all 
his sorrows and perplexities, or how he hungered 
for a word of love. The usual morning and 
evening greetings might have passed between 
mere acquaintances, and in constant daily inter- 
course Harry never had fully realized the depth of 
his father’s love, or Mr. Westbrooke his son’s silent 
craving for sympathy and tenderness. The lad 
never knew how often, as on that night, his father 
bent over his sleeping face to murmur, “ God bless 
my son !” 


214 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

BRIGHTER DA YS. 

Harry’s troubles, being unclouded by an uneasy 
conscience, did not prevent his sleeping soundly 
and peacefully, and he did not wake until his fa- 
ther’s voice roused him, saying, “ The dressing-bell 
is ringing, Harry.” 

He sprang up quickly then, anxious for a few 
moments of private conversation with his father be- 
fore going to business. The opportunity came after 
breakfast, when Mr. Westbrooke returned to the 
room, saying, “ Tell Poulson I will be over at nine 
o’clock, Harry. I want to examine some papers in 
the tin-box. Or, stay. You can help me if you 
will.” 

Very glad to postpone any of his time with 
Poulson when he could do so conscientiously, Har- 
ry took down the tin-box from its place on the clos- 
et-shelf, and drew up a chair to the table where his 
father was already seated. 

“ Father,” he said, “can you spare me a few min- 
utes before we open the box ?” 

“ Certainly, my boy. And by the way, I think 
I can anticipate your request. My own experience 


BRIGHTER DAYS. 


215 


in yesterday’s sun reminded me that our summer 
wardrobes must , need replenishing. Order what 
you want, Harry, and send the bill to me. I can 
trust you not to be extravagant.” 

“ Thank you,” Harry said gratefully. “I do 
really need a suit. Mine are all too small for me. 
But I wanted to speak of other matters.” 

Mr. Westbrooke’s face was gravely attentive, as 
Harry, at first with much hesitation, but afterwards 
fully and frankly, put before him all his difficulties 
and misgivings. 

“ You see, father,” he said in conclusion, “ I did 
not speak before because I hoped that if I gave my' 
whole attention to the work before me, and faithful- 
ly tried to conquer all its difficulties, I should im- 
prove and be of some use to you.” 

“ I see !” 

“ But I have tried faithfully and earnestly, and 
failed.” 

“ Why do you think you have failed ?” 

“ Why ?” said Harry, in sincere amazement, 
“because Poulson finds me more incorrigibly stu- 
pid every day.” 

It was not often that Mr. ' Westbrooke was ex- 
cited to merriment, his whole nature inclining to a 
grave reserve ; but to Harry’s utter bewilderment, he 


2l6 


ALMOST A MAN. 


answered his doleful confession by a burst of hearty 
laughter. “Cheer up, Harry, my son,” he said 
presently, extending his hand across the table to 
place it kindly upon one of Harry’s, “ that is what 
we call ‘ Poulson’s way.’ He does not intend to 
deceive you, exactly, but having been educated in 
a hard school himself, he believes that praise and 
commendation are ruinous to young people. Often, 
when I have spoken to some of the lads encoura- 
gingly, he has checked me, shaking his head 
solemnly, and saying, ‘ It wont do, Mr. Westbrooke. 
I tell you, it wont do. Make a youngster conceited, 
and you spoil him. The only way to make a man 
of a boy is to keep him down.’ ” 

“ Then you think I am not so very dull after 
all ?” said Harry, half doubtful still. 

“I think if you could stand behind the door 
and hear old Poulson praise your work, you would 
be quite conceited enough to justify his opinion, 
and be spoiled.” 

The boy’s face brightened at once. 

“ If the work taxes you too heavily,” said Mr. 
Westbrooke kindly, “we must give you some spare 
hours. But,” and his hand pressed Harry’s, “you 
must not talk of leaving ‘ Westbrooke’s,’ my son. 
We cannot give you up !” 


BRIGHTER DA VS. 


21 7 


“ I will never speak of it again, sir, if you really 
find me useful. Poulson need not have feared to 
spoil me, but I shall not take his incessant grum- 
bling so much to heart after this.” 

“ He means well, Harry, and he is very proud 
of you. More than once he has kept me for half 
an hour, showing me your beautiful figures, your 
neat pages, or some letter he considered especially 
adapted to the occasion calling for it. ‘I never 
saw such a boy for hitting the nail right on the 
head/ he told me once ; ‘ one might think he had 
been corresponding for the business for years.’ 
No, no, do n’t fret over the old man’s fault-finding. 
It is only intended to spur you on to greater excel- 
lence.” 

“It was having an exactly contrary effect,” said 
Harry, his face fairly radiant with pleasure; “a 
word of praise now and then would have done me 
a world of good, but the feeling that all my efforts 
only resulted in making failures was taking all the 
heart out of my work. If I really help you, either 
at the store or at home, I shall work on with a 
lighter heart.” 

“You really do, my son. And I am going to 
take you more fully into my confidence, with the 
old object in view, a partnership when you are of 
28 


Almost A Man. 


2 1 3 


ALMOST A MAN. 


age. Not the partnership I hoped for, Harry, in 
full prosperity, but a working place, to try to make 
the business once more what it has been.” 

As he spoke Mr. Westbrooke unlocked the box 
upon the table, and took out some papers. “By 
the way, Harry,” he said, looking up, “ is not your 
eighteenth birthday in this month ?” 

“ On the twentieth, sir !” 

“ The twentieth of April, eh ? That is next 
Tuesday.” 

“Yes, sir!” 

“Next Tuesday. Let me see! I think I shall 
send you to Fairhaven to spend the day !” 

“ And see Aunt Ellen and Etta ! Oh thank you !” 

“You need some recreation, for you are alto- 
gether too pale ! And I want to make some new 
arrangements about the countingroom. We will 
have no mystery about it, Harry. I put you under 
Poulson to learn the routine of bookkeeping and 
the other duties that will probably be required of 
you. But after your return from Fairhaven you 
will find a private desk for yourself in my own 
office. You will come to me only for orders. You 
write my letters for me, attend to my books, and 
only go to Poulson when you are bothered and need 
assistance. You have served your short, but hard- 


BRIGHTER DAYS. 


219 

working apprenticeship well, Harry; now you shall 
have the place I hope you will keep for years — be- 
side me I hope for a time ; after I am gone, in my 
own seat.” 

“ God helping me, you shall find me a faithful 
son and helper!” said Harry solemnly, deeply 
moved by the rush of happiness he felt. 

“Spoken like a man!” said Mr. Westbrooke 
heartily. “And now you shall have a holiday. 
To-day I want your assistance, but to-morrow is 
Saturday. Get your new suit, and be all ready for 
an early start to Fairhaven on Monday morning. 
I will write to Ellen to expect you. You can leave 
on the morning train Wednesday, and so have your 
birthday entire, with your aunt and sister.” 

“ I wish you could come, sir.” 

“ Impossible, just now. But I will try to ar- 
range matters so that you can take my place for a 
few days in the summer. Business will be dull 
then, and I will try to take a trip to see Ellen and 
Etta ! I am very glad you spoke to me this morn- 
ing, Harry. It proves to me the expediency of 
hastening a little the plan I have always had, of 
taking you into my own office. With God’s help, 
my son, we will bring up the old house yet.” 

With God’s help ! Harry’s heart bounded to 


220 


ALMOST A MAN. 


hear his father’s words, for, even in the last few 
weeks, Mr. Westbrooke had seldom spoken of 
those religious emotions that were now influencing 
him. He had accepted his discipline with humility, 
and commenced retreading his wellworn path to 
wealth with prayerful effort, no longer relying, as 
of old, upon his own strength, but seeing his errors, 
and asking for guidance and help. 

All the morning the two worked busily, Mr. 
Westbrooke, taught by Harry’s frank words a little 
earlier in the day, giving him encouragement by let- 
ting him see where he was really assisting him, in- 
stead of putting aside his work for future use, with- 
out comment. 

“ There !” he said at last, closing the box, “ we 
have half an hour before luncheon, and then I must 
go to the store. Can you write all those letters this 
afternoon ?” 

“ I think I can, sir.” 

“ That is all you need do until you return from 
Fairhaven. Take a good rest to-morrow. We 
shall soon see our way clear, Harry !” 

“You think so?” the boy asked eagerly, very 
proud of that implied partnership in the little word 
“we.” 

“I do think so! Already I have wiped off 


BRIGHTER DA VS. 


221 


three of the heaviest liabilities, and the orders this 
spring come in briskly and steadily. It will be 
many years before we can hope for actual wealth, 
but I think it will not be very long that we need 
practise severe economy. You have helped me, 
Harry, more than with your time and pen. I think 
last winter, that I was on the road to utter desper- 
ation, madness, or suicide ! I cannot describe to 
you how crushed I felt. I had resolved, to be sure, 
to face my troubles as boldly as I could, but they 
were grinding me into the very ground. Had you 
deserted me, Harry, had I not had my son’s love to 
sustain me, I think I should have utterly despaired. 
Your faith led me once more into thoughts too long 
smothered under worldly pressure. I have fallen 
too much into the silent reception of your affection, 
my son, but I never failed, to appreciate it. When 
I found my dressing-gown and slippers warmed for 
me on bitter winter evenings, if I merely said, 
‘ Thank you,’ I said it from my heart. When 
everything that I needed in the morning lay un- 
der my hand, I knew well whose thoughtful love 
had placed them there. When a strong young arm 
helped me over glassy pavements, I thanked God 
for my son !” 

“ Father, do n’t ; I don’t deserve it !” Harry cried. 


222 


ALMOST A MAX. 


“ You do deserve it, and once at least you shall 
hear it. Never doubt my love, Harry. I am not 
demonstrative, as you know, but I bless God for my 
son every hour of my life.” 

Can it be wondered that Harry, after one long 
embrace given to his father, felt a new hope, a new 
strength to sustain him, no matter how hard the 
future might be. Never had he been so happy as 
he was on that day. His pen flew rapidly but with 
great painstaking over the letters left in his care, 
and when the last one was finished and ready for 
his father’s revision, he dressed for a walk, as joy- 
ous as a boy released from school. 

“ A ready-made suit !” he thought, stopping at 
his father’s tailor’s, “ and a cheap one as well. How 
I should have turned up my nose at that one year 
ago ! But I am very glad ‘ we,’ ” and he smiled at 
the little word, “ can afford even that now. Aunt 
Ellen wont know if it cost ten dollars or fifty, and 
will care less. And Etta — bless her blue eyes ! — 
will think brother Harry is perfect, if he comes in 
homespun.” 

That day at Fairhaven was the brightest antici- 
pation Harry had ever known. He gratefully ac- 
cepted a small sum his father gave him to carry 
keepsakes to Etta, and spent Saturday in shopping 


BRIGHTER DA YS. 


223 


that would once have excited only contemptuous 
merriment, but now gave him keen pleasure. And 
in the evening the packing of a small valise was a 
far greater happiness than he had ever known when 
his ample wardrobe was carefully folded by a ser- 
vant, to go into the great trunk suitable for a young 
gentleman of fashion sojourning for the summer at 
Newport, Saratoga, or Long Branch. 

Sunday was a lovely day, without one shower to 
tell that it was April, and only fleecy clouds across 
the bright blue of the sunny skies. Father and son 
walked to church together, and spent the afternoon 
in quiet conversation until Mr. Westbrooke took a 
nap, waking refreshed, and inviting Harry to accom- 
pany him to evening service. For, long before, the 
Sunday work had been put aside, not, as at first, to 
save Harry from the effect of bad example, but be- 
cause it was an offence against God. Saturday 
evening every paper relating to worldly affairs was 
locked in the table-drawer or in Mr. Westbrooke’s 
secretary, to remain untouched until Monday morn- 
ing ; and as far as possible the old merchant with- 
drew his speech and thoughts from all business con- 
cerns upon the Sabbath-day. And while his con- 
science approved, he found too that his mind was 
clearer for that one day of perfect rest and tran- 


224 


ALMOST A MAN. 


quil attention to his devotions. In the evening he 
would often ask Harry to read aloud, inexpressi- 
bly comforted by the sound of the voice that spoke 
the holy words before him with such reverence and 
love. 

Upon the Sunday evening before Harry’s birth- 
day, the hour between the return from church and 
bedtime was devoted to Etta. It would have taxed 
a less loving memory than Harry’s very heavily to 
remember half the messages he was charged with 
for the golden-haired darling the father and brother 
both loved so devotedly, and even Harry laughed 
merrily as, bidding his father good-night, he added, 
“Etta will never let me come home without her, 
father, if she realizes how much you are longing to 
see her.” 

“ She would have but a dull time here, Harry.” 

“Yes. She is certainly happier where she is, 
and she could not be in kinder care than Aunt 
Ellen’s.” 

“But I hope the day will soon come when we 
can have them both with us, if not in the summer- 
time, at least during the winter months. It will 
hardly be safe, I imagine, to have Etta in the city 
during the hot weather for some years to come. 
Now, my boy, go to bed, to rest before your long 


BRIGHTER DA VS. 


225 


journey to-morrow. Good night. I shall read 
awhile.” 

Harry obeyed, and was soon fast asleep, dream- 
ing of Etta in a field of buttercups, her curls wreath- 
ed with flowers, and crying out in great glee foi* 
brother Harry to look at her pretty posies. 


A\most a Man. 


29 


226 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A BIRTHDA Y AT FAIRHA VEN. 

“You had better take the express-train at 
10:30,” Mr. Westbrooke said to his son, as he 
handed him a bank-note to coyer his expenses. 
“Your aunt Ellen took the way-train to stop two 
hours at dinner, on account of Etta’s weakness ; 
but I think you had better keep right on. You 
will reach Fairhaven station then before five o’clock. 
I hope you will have a pleasant time, and I shall be 
glad to see you here again at dinner-time next 
Wednesday.” 

“Thank you, father,” Harry said. “My only 
regret is that you are not coming with me. Good- 

b y-” 

It was still too early to start for the d£pot, and 
Harry busied himself with a little plan he had. As 
soon as the chambermaid had put the room in 
order, Harry, who in the meantime had been to a 
florist’s in the neighborhood, drew out a little stand 
from a corner, covered it with a white cloth, and 
put upon it a small glass containing a bunch of ex- 
quisite flowers. In front of this he placed a Bible, 


A BIRTHDAY AT FAIRHAVEN. 227 

purchased out of his scanty pocket-money, to re- 
place the one that his father and himself had read 
» together, now packed in his valise. He drew his 
father’s favorite chair beside the table, threw over 
it his dressing-gown, put his slippers upon a foot- 
stool in front, and then writing upon a card, “A 
birthday greeting from a loving son,” put that upon 
the table. 

“ There !” he said, standing back to see the 
effect, “ that looks first rate ; and father will know 
I thought of him up to the last moment.” 

Then taking up his valise, with a little grimace 
as he thought of the days when a softly-cushioned 
carriage, instead of a horse-car, took him to the 
ddpot, he went out, carefully locking the door, and 
putting the key in the place where his father would 
expect to find it. 

It was rather a dull day, not raining, but very 
cloudy and chilly for so late in April. But Harry 
little heeded the weather as he walked down to the 
ferry, with the usual feeling of a traveller, that 
everything looks different as we start upon a jour- 
ney. 

The ddpot was reached in good season, a lunch- 
eon put up in the restaurant, two weekly newspa- 
pers purchased, and then Harry settled himself in 


228 


ALMOST A MAN. 


the car-seat, fully prepared to take all pleasure that 
should offer itself, and make the most of his brief 
and unexpected holiday. 

“ Three months sooner than I thought of seeing 
them,” he mused, as he imagined his aunt’s pleas- 
ure and Etta’s delight, “and all the dread of a hasty 
summons quite over. I wonder how much of farm- 
life one can see in a day. It must be jolly to live 
in the country, real country.” 

For real country scenes and pursuits were totally 
out of the range of Harry’s experience. He had 
read of boy-life on a farm, and sighed a little some- 
times as he envied the freedom from all the society 
restraints that cramped his own existence ; but all 
he knew of farm-life was the glimpse to be seen 
from a carriage in an afternoon drive. Mrs. West- 
brooke would have considered it an actual cruelty 
to be banished to such a summer residence, and 
certainly would never have gone from choice. 

It rained heavily for an hour or two after the 
train left New York, and then the sun came out, 
showing all the beauty of the tender young foliage 
glittering with the crystal drops of water. Just at 
five o’clock the cars stopped at Fairhaven station, 
and the solitary passenger got out. 

Upon the platform were two well-known figures, 


A BIRTHDA Y AT FAIRHA VEA r . 229 

two faces beaming with welcome, and Harry was 
folded in a most loving embrace by Aunt Ellen, 
while Etta stood looking shyly at the tall young fel- 
low, who had grown in the last seven months almost 
out of her baby recollection. But presently Harry 
knelt upon one knee to bring his face on a level 
with that of his sister, and all Etta’s shyness van- 
ished as she ran into “ brother Harry’s ” outstretch- 
ed arms. 

“You darling!” Harry cried, kissing her rosy 
cheeks and pouting lips; “you little beauty!” 

“ I can say brother Harry now,” said Etta, with 
a most startling emphasis and display of her tongue 
upon the letters she had conquered. 

“ So you can. And are you glad to see brother 
Harry, Etta ?” 

“Ever so glad,” was the quick reply; “and 
we ’ve got a pound-cake for tea, all sugar on top, 
because it’s your birthday !” 

“O Etta! Etta!” cried Aunt Ellen merrily, 
“ who was going to keep all the secrets ?” 

“ I only told one. Never mind, brother Harry, 
there’s some more I haven’t told.” 

“We had better hurry home before you do, 
then,” said Miss Westbrooke. “David has our own 
carryall here, Harry. I don’t think the old farm- 


230 


ALMOST A MAN. 


horse would cut much of a figure in Central Park, 
but he can carry us over the three miles a little 
more quickly than our own feet. David,” she added 
presently, as they stood at the foot of the platform 
steps, “ this is my nephew, Harry Westbrooke.” 

“ And proud I am to see you, sir,” said David, 
somewhat awed at Harry’s city-bred air and “ store 
clothes.” “You’re welcome to Fairhaven, sir; and 
I remember your father when he left us, Mr. Har- 
ry, though I was n’t much bigger than Miss Etta 
there the day he went away.” • 

Harry replied kindly, and assisting Miss West- 
brooke into the carryall, took the seat beside her, 
with Etta on his knee, while David chirruped to 
the old horse, and started him upon a steady jog- 
trot that was his most rapid travel. 

“ Is n’t it lovely ?” Harry cried, as they passed 
the meadows with the young grass like green vel- 
vet, orchards in full beauty of pink or white blos- 
soms, banks of violets and blue starry forget-me- 
nots, and trees whose foliage was of the tender 
green of the young leaves. 

“ This is real country !” 

“Yes!” Miss Westbrooke answered, “we were 
afraid the railroad was going to spoil Fairhaven ; 
but you see, as soon as we are out of that small 


A BIRTHDA Y AT FAIRHA YEN. 


231 


cluster of houses and stores that make the village, 
we are as primitive as we were fifty years ago. 
Why, we have actually farmers’ wives near my 
farm who have not seen the locomotive yet, al- 
though it has passed within three miles for nearly 
ten years.” 

“ I guess you have n’t many boys who can say 
that,” said Harry laughing. “ Etta !” in a myste- 
rious whisper perfectly audible to all the others, 
“ do you like candy ?” 

“ Oh !” was the expressive reply, “ I have n’t had 
one bit for long, long, long time.” 

“ Papa put a big box of candy for his little girl, 
right on the very top of my valise this morning.” 

“ And is it there now ?” asked Etta anxiously. 

“ I am quite sure that it is. I did n’t take even 
one tiny taste.” 

“ But I ’ll give you a whole lot, and auntie and 
David and Mary,” said Etta quickly ; “ and, Auntie, 
do chickies like candy ?” 

“No, dear, chickies like corn better.” 

“ The baby-chickies ?” said Etta doubtfully. 

“ They like meal and water. They do n’t care 
one bit for candy.” 

“We’ve got baby-chickies, brother Harry,” 
said Etta, “ all soft and yellow ; but Etta do n’t 


232 


ALMOST A MAN. 


touch them, ’cause mamma chicky do n’t like it. 
The mamma chicky,” said Etta very gravely, re- 
peating what she had been told, “don’t under- 
stand that Etta wont hurt her babies, and so she ’s 
very ’fraid if she touches them.” 

“ I see,” said Harry, with due gravity. “ And 
are they very pretty, Etta ?” 

“ Boo-ti-ful !” was the slow, well-divided word in 
reply. 

Pleasant chat made the drive seem very short, 
and Mary was standing at the door to give the par- 
ty welcome, as they drove up. It was a new ex- 
perience to Harry to see the servants upon such an 
equal social footing with their employer, but his 
quick tact prevented his showing any surprise, and 
he clasped Mary’s outstretched hand in hearty re- 
ply to her words of greeting. 

“I have the tea all ready, Miss Ellen,” Mary 
said, opening the door of the sittingroom, where 
the table had been spread in honor of a visitor 
from “ York,” that far-away city the old servants 
thought of with great respect. 

It was a company-tea, over which Miss West- 
brooke, Mary and Etta had worked happily all the 
morning. Flaky biscuit, light as puff-balls, every 
one cut and pricked by Etta’s chubby hands, as she 


A BIRTHDAY AT FAIRHAVEN. 233 

informed her brother, were balanced by thin crisp 
slices of dry toast. Marmalade in pretty glass dish- 
es, rhubarb and young radishes, and fresh water- 
cresses, were like bouquets of color, while the iced 
cake took the place of honor in the centre of the 
table. A cutlet, brown and tempting, and thinly- 
sliced fried potatoes, with fragrant coffee, offered 
more substantial fare for a dinnerless traveller. 

Harry’s hand was on his chair, when Etta pulled 
him down, to say in a loud whisper, “ You mustn’t 
sit down till auntie says a blessing.” And he 
stood with bowed head to listen to the simple words 
of thanks and blessing. 

Then, sitting down, he saw upon his plate a 
bookmark, worked in blue silk, with the name 
“ Harry” in wonderful stitches, struggling often 
over their marked limits, some diagonal, some 
straight, some long, and some short, upon a piece 
of perforated card sewed to a blue ribbon. 

“ That ’s one surprise !” said Etta gleefully, “ and 
you are to guess who made it, all by her own self, 
for you.” 

“I guess,” said Harry slowly, “it must have 
been Aunt Ellen.” 

“ No — oh — guess again,” cried Etta, pursing up 
her mouth into a tiny rosy button. 

30 


Almost a Maa. 


234 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“ Mary ?” 

“ No — no — no” 

“ It could n’t be you !” cried Harry, in a voice 
of the greatest astonishment. 

“But it was all my own self. A’ n’t it boo- 
ti-ful ?’’ 

“ I think it is — just beautiful,” said Harry, in all 
sincerity. 

“There’s only one little bit of bloody place, 
where I pricked my finger,” said Etta, “ and it was 
a’most done, and you were coming so soon I could 
not do another, so we thought you would n’t mind.” 

“ No, indeed ! I ’ll put it in a book I open 
every day, Etta, so I can think of my little sister 
whenever I see it.” 

“ Aunt Ellen’s surprise is nicer than mine, 
’cause she’s bigger,” said Etta, pushing a pair of 
handsomely-embroidered slippers nearer Harry’s 
hand. 

“ These for me, too ? Thank you, Auntie !” 
said Harry. “Did you work them ?” 

“Yes; they were intended for your summer 
visit, but were easily hurried a little. Now Etta 
dear, let brother Harry eat some supper. He must 
be hungry.” 

“ ’Ess !” said Etta, who, in moments of excite- 


A BIRTHDA Y AT FAIRHA VEN. 


235 


ment, was apt to fall back upon her baby words, 
“ you can eat if you want to, brother H any.” 

Harry availed himself of this gracious permission 
right heartily. Nothing had ever tasted so deli- 
cious to him as the tempting fare, eaten with such 
dearly-loved voices making music near him, such 
sweet faces to meet his eyes. 

“ One has to live in a boardinghouse awhile, 
to appreciate a home-meal like this,” he said pres- 
ently. 

“ Is boarding very disagreeable ?” Miss West- 
brooke asked. 

“Very! It may be all my own fault, but there 
is absolutely nobody in the house who is in any 
way congenial to me. I do n’t mind it very much 
now, because I am busy most of the time. But it 
was very doleful before,” and here Harry laugh- 
ingly straightened himself and looked important, 
“ I went into business.” 

Miss Westbrooke smiled too, but her lip quiver- 
ed as if the tears were very near the smile. She 
had grieved over her brother’s misfortunes very 
deeply, appreciating fully how heavy they were at 
his advanced age, and after so prosperous a busi- 
ness career. 

But she would not cloud one moment of Har- 


236 


ALMOST A MAN. 


ry’s short holiday, and soon was chatting pleasant- 
ly, telling of Etta’s improved health and the many 
delights the opening of spring had brought to her. 

“Every day brings some new discovery,” she 
said. “We know where many of the birds are 
building, and where the violets are the bluest and 
thickest. And we watch for the broods of chick- 
ens, that Etta thinks are even prettier than the 
birds. Even my pet canary is not so beautiful to 
Etta as the little downy yellow balls that follow the 
old hens.” 

“ ’Cause a canary is in a cage,” explained Etta, 
“ and chickies run all about.” 

After tea the three walked in the garden, ex- 
changing bits of experience since their last parting, 
and Etta’s heart was delighted with the box of 
candy and a puzzle-picture in Harry’s valise, while 
simple gifts from brother and nephew proved to 
Miss Westbrooke that she also was kindly remem- 
bered. 

In the morning, Etta’s little fist thumping at 
Harry’s door was answered instantly by his appear- 
ance, fully dressed and ready for all the sights she 
was ready to show him. 

“ Auntie says we may go for an hour ’fore break- 
fus,” she said, “if we don’t get losed.” 


A BIRTHDA Y AT FAIRHA VEN. 


23 7 


“ Be very careful, then, that you do n’t lose me,” 
said Harry gravely, “ because I should n’t know my 
way here without you.” 

“ I ’ll be careful,” was the equally grave assu- 
rance, and Harry was led down stairs, through the 
kitchen, where he exchanged morning greetings 
with the old servants, and out into the cool, fresh, 
morning air, with the early sunshine making every 
object bright and beautiful. • Here he made the 
acquaintance of the chickens, old hens and wee 
chicks, the ducks and ducklings, the geese and gos- 
lings, very ready to agree with Etta that the chicks 
were prettiest of all the babies. The barn was vis- 
ited, Etta losing all her fear of the cattle when held 
in Harry’s arms, and pointing out the cows as she 
called each one by name, before David appeared to 
drive them into the barnyard to be milked. Then 
the child scampered to the house for her own cup 
and one for her brother, and Harry tasted new 
milk for the first time in his life, and — did n’t like 
it. 

“ It must be an acquired taste, like that for to- 
matoes and olives,” he said merrily to his aunt at 
breakfast; “it is too warm and rich for me.” 

“It suits Etta,” said Miss Westbrooke. “Dr. 
Lewis told me "to let her drink all she wanted, just 


2 3 8 


ALMOST A MAN. 


at milking-time, and no medicine was ever more 
efficacious. She is very fond of it.” 

“That and her life here have certainly made 
a new child of her,” said Harry. “It seems al- 
most impossible that she can be the thin, pale, 
little snowdrop you brought from New York last 
fall.” 

“She was awfully peaked, that’s a fact,” said 
Mary, “but Miss Ellen is a master hand at nurs- 
ing, Mr. Harry. Nobody can get sick within three 
miles of i Westbrooke Farm ’ without sending over 
to Miss Ellen. Many a night she’s gone two miles 
in the snow to some poor body that was alone and 
suffering.” 

“ There was not much nursing required in Etta’s 
case,” said Miss Westbrooke, “ only to guard against 
her catching cold.” 

“ Did have one cough,” said Etta, puckering up 
her face, “ and took nice medicine, all sweet.” 

“We do not send for doctors for trifling ail- 
ments,” said Miss Ellen. “ Etta’s cough was not 
very severe.” 

“A’ n’t it most time for that other surprise?” 
asked Etta, when breakfast was over, pulling her 
aunt down to whisper in her ear. 

“Most time, Etta,” was the reply. “You can 


A BIRTHDA Y AT FAIRHA VEN. 239 

get your little basket for Mary, and tell brother 
Harry how we mean to spend his birthday.” 

Etta ran up stairs, and soon returned with a 
small, covered basket, which she carried into the 
kitchen, where Mary was already busily filling a 
larger one with sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, pies, 
cakes, and buttered biscuit. 


240 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE PICNIC. 

“We’re going to have a picnic!” announced 
Etta, returning from the kitchen to the sitting- 
room in great excitement. “A real basket pic- 
nic !” 

“You don’t mean it !” Harry cried. 

“ ’Ess ! Down to Silver Brook. Only in the 
book there was folks, and we wont have any folks.” 

“I think I must explain,” said Miss West- 
brooke. “In one -of Etta’s storybooks there is a 
long description of a picnic, that captivated her 
fancy at once. She was quite willing to postpone 
the pleasure of a day out doors, and dinner carried 
in a basket, until warm weather; but just as soon 
as the letter announcing your coming was read to 
her, she petitioned for a picnic for your birthday 
party.” 

“ Splendid !” said Harry, answering the eager 
question in Etta’s blue eyes. 

“ But,” continued Miss Westbrooke, “ I thought 
you would rather postpone introductions to our 
friends here until the long summer visit I hope you 


THE PICNIC. 


241 


will make here; and so our picnic-party will be 
very select, consisting only of Mr. Westbrooke, 
Miss Westbrooke, and Miss Etta Westbrooke. 
You will condescend to drive Jerry, I hope, for one 
day.” 

“ I only wish I could drive him every day for 
six weeks,” was the quick reply. “ Where is our 
picnic ground ?” 

“ About two miles from here, one of Etta’s fa- 
vorite spots when she and I take our afternoon 
drive. Did your father ever tell you of Silver 
Brook ?” 

“ Often. But I thought it was on the farm.” 

“ It does run through one of my meadows, but 
winds away for a long distance beyond. The bend 
where we are going to-day is near a grove of trees, 
where there is a great flat rock, about three feet 
high. I think it is that natural table that makes 
the spot a favorite picnic ground for Fairhaven 
folks, and they have made rustic seats of rock and 
fallen trees around the table and in the grove. I 
sent David over on Saturday to put up a swing for 
Etta, and intend to leave it there for our future 
visits and the benefit of Fairhaven children gener- 
ally” 

“ Oh ! oh !” cried Etta, dancing about on one 
31 


Almost A Man. 


242 


ALMOST A MAN. 


foot, “ that’s my surprise. Jerry is at the door, 
Aunt Ellen, and David is putting the baskets in 
the carryall.” 

The little party was soon ready, Miss Ellen bid- 
ding Mary have a substantial tea-dinner ready for 
their return at five o’clock ; and taking the reins, 
Harry drove Jerry along the road Miss Westbrooke 
pointed out. The day was cloudless and warm, a 
perfect spring day, promising early summer, and 
there was no disposition on the part of any of the 
three to hurry Jerry’s steady, slow trot, as he car- 
ried them down shady lanes and across roads where 
the dust was well laid by the rain of the previous 
day. 

“ I never realized until to-day,” said Harry, 
“ how much you sacrificed for us last summer, 
Aunt Ellen. It must have been very hard to leave 
all this for city life.” 

“ I love the country very much,” was her reply, 
“but I love my brother and his children far more 
even than my home. It seems very pleasant to you 
here, Harry, but I am afraid that you would soon 
miss city excitement and bustle. I have passed 
my whole life here, so that the quiet and monotony 
never weary me.” 

“ It seems as if I should never tire of it,” Harry 














THE PICNIC. 


243 


answered. “ It must be easy to be good here. One 
could never forget the Creator in the midst of his 
bounties here.” 

“ His bounties are as manifest everywhere,” 
was the reply, “ if we will only see them.” 

“True, but here the hand of man has not cov- 
ered up the face of nature.” 

They had left the carryall when Harry spoke, 
and having made Jerry comfortable for the day, 
were standing near the little brook, that, just at 
this point, rushed over the rocks with the pleasant 
music of a waterfall. 

There was a moment of silence, and then Etta, 
in a sweet, childish treble, began to sing a hymn 
her aunt Ellen had taught her in the home Sun- 
day-school she had established for stormy days, 
when they could not go to the village to church. 

She stood upon a flat rock, her hands clasped 
behind her, holding her broad straw hat, her sweet 
face earnest in its expression of childlike devotion, 
and Harry felt his own heart, too, lifted to the Cre- 
ator of all, in the presence of his bounteous gifts to 
his children manifest upon every side. 

As Etta finished her song, her brother lifted her 
in his arms for a loving caress, saying, “ Thank you 
very much, little sister. Your voice is as sweet as 


244 


ALMOST A MAN. 


those of the little birds up in the trees over our 
heads. Brother Harry does not have any one at 
home now to sing him songs.” 

“But Etta will when she comes. Etta will 
learn lots and lots of hymns to sing to you and 
papa.” 

“ I will tell papa so,” said Harry, “ and you must 
remember just this very one for him.” 

“ I will.” 

“And now, Etta,” said Miss Ellen, “you may 
run where you want to, if you will keep in sight 
and not go too near the water. You will find 
plenty of daisies and other flowers just beyond that 
great tree, and we can carry home a large bouquet 
in the basket.” 

Then the child, prouder of her brother’s kiss 
and words of praise for her little song than a jew- 
elled concert-singer of rapturous applause, ran 
away to seek wild-flowers, and the older folks found 
comfortable seats under the trees, where, still watch- 
ing the child, they could have a long chat. 

“ It may be our only uninterrupted opportunity 
to talk,” Miss Westbrooke said, “and I want to 
question you, Harry, upon a very delicate subject.” 

Harry was all attention in a moment. 

“You may not know, Harry, that my father’s 


THE PICNIC. 


245 


death left my mother and me very poor. We could 
not make the farm produce what father had been 
getting from it, because mother was in very bad 
health, and a great deal of my time had to be given 
to nursing her. Your father was very generous, 
sending us frequent and liberal gifts of money; but 
he was not a rich man at that time, and needed his 
capital to carry on his business. But after mother 
died, being then in prosperous circumstances, he 
settled upon me the sum of ten thousand dollars, 
entirely out of his own future control. The inter- 
est alone of that sum has been more than I needed, 
for my farm supplies me with most of my living, 
and I send a great deal to market. I used some of 
the spare money to improve the house and out- 
buildings, to put up good fences, and to keep the 
place in thoroughly good repair. But I have saved 
nearly two thousand dollars, now in bank, for emer- 
gencies. Harry, your father’s business trouble 
seemed to me the fitting opportunity to return his 
gift and what I had saved. I can live comfortably 
upon the profits of the farm. But your father re- 
fuses to accept my offer.” 

“ He was most grateful to you for making it, 
Auntie. He read me your letter with tears in his 
eyes.” 


246 


ALMOST A MAN. 


“ Harry, you must help me in this, and add your 
persuasion to mine, to make him take the money. 
He needs it more now than I do.” 

“ I think not, Auntie. If he were in absolute 
poverty or danger of disgrace, it would be different. 
But he is not. His creditors understand fully the 
disastrous speculations that crippled him, and they 
are willing to give him time to meet his obligations. 
To take your small fortune would only be to divide 
it among those who do not actually need it, and to 
each of whom his own portion of it would seem very 
trifling. We,” and again that merry smile lit the 
boy’s face that always came when he spoke of his 
own share in his father’s interests, “ we ’ll pull 
through, Auntie, with God’s help, and pay every- 
body” 

“You would not deceive me, Harry?” 

“ I would not, indeed, in the smallest particu- 
lar. Father’s good name is untouched, because he 
gave up everything, and made no concealments of 
the cause of his troubles. He will soon be clear 
again. Why, Auntie, he expects to stand clear by 
the time I am of age, and to take me into part- 
nership, with the business almost as profitable as 
ever, though his wealth will not be so large as it 
has been.” 


THE PICNIC. 


247 


“You have taken a great load off my mind, 
Harry. All your letters have been cheerful, though 
I could see you were far from happy; but your 
father was never a good correspondent, and now 
his letters are shorter and less frequent than ever.” 

“He is always at work, Auntie. I don’t think 
that the laborer who leaves his pick and shovel at 
six o’clock and envies the rich man driving home 
in a carriage, realizes how much harder that very 
rich man may work, though it may not be labor 
that soils his hands.” 

“And you, Harry ? You are very much paler 
and thinner than you were in the fall.” 

Then Harry under kind questioning told his 
aunt all the trials of his winter’s discipline with its 
heartaches and humiliations, and of his father’s kind 
and loving plans for the future. And just such 
sympathy as he had hungered for, for months, he 
met as he spoke. It was like a new lease of life 
to him to listen to the gentle words of encourage- 
ment and advice, drawn from higher founts of wis- 
dom than Aunt Ellen’s and satisfying every crav- 
ing of Harry’s heart. 

The conversation was a very long one, and little 
Etta, coming often with bunches of grass and flow- 
ers, and seeing only grave faces, at last, nestling 


2 4 S 


ALMOST A MAN. 


close to Harry’s side, said very pitifully, “ I thought 
this was a picnic, with baskets and swinging and 
lots o’ fun ; and it a’ n’t anything but just talk!” 

“ That is altogether too bad !” said Harry cheer- 
fully. “Auntie, shall we see what is in the bas- 
kets ?” 

Miss Westbrooke assenting, Etta volunteered 
the information that the tablecloth, knives, forks, 
and plates, were in the basket with red stripes, and 
the “goodies” in the other one, while her own bas- 
ket was full of cookies. She was very happy help- 
ing to spread the feast, and brought all her flowers 
to look pretty in the middle of the rock table. 

Mary’s bountiful supply of provisions had am- 
ple justice done to it, the older folks putting aside 
grave conversation to devote themselves to Etta, 
and listen to all the wonderful discoveries she had 
made in her morning’s ramble around them, and 
which she was eager to point out to Harry, from 
the big “happy toad, close by the brook,” to the 
“birdie’s nest with the birdie sitting on it,” upon a 
bush so low that the little maiden could see into it 
by standing upon a big stone. 

The table cleared, Etta was delighted by being 
allowed to control all the afternoon occupations, 
graciously permitting Aunt Ellen to take occasional 


THE PICNIC. 


249 


rests, and Harry to feed Jerry. “ Because,” he 
gravely informed her, “ Jerry could never carry 
them home again, if he was starved to death.” 

“ I ’m glad I do n’t have to eat oats and corn,” 
said Etta, peeping into Jerry’s nose-bag. “I like 
pies and cakes better.” 

“ How about oatmeal porridge and Johnny-cake ?” 
asked Miss Westbrooke. “ I think I ’ve seen a lit- 
tle girl I know, eating her share of oats and corn.” 

“ O Auntie ! Are they made of oats and corn ?” 

“ They are !” 

“Well, then,” said Etta, after a moment of con- 
sideration, “ I ’m glad I do n’t have to eat them 
raw, as Jerry does ! Now, brother Harry, will you 
swing me ?” 

That was great fun, the strong young arms toss- 
ing the fearless, laughing child high up among the 
branches of the trees, while Aunt Ellen, half fearful, 
stood watching, lest there should be a fall. But no 
mishaps broke the pleasure of the birthday and 
Etta’s surprise. The hours passed only too quickly 
until it was time to harness Jerry again, and turn 
their faces homeward. 

“It is certainly ridiculous to feel hungry, after 
the tremendous luncheon I ate,” said Harry, as the 
three entered the sittingroom again, “ but I feel as 

Almost a Man. 32 


250 


ALMOST A MAN. 


if that supper I see Mary bringing in would just 
suit my present appetite ! You would find me an 
expensive boarder, Auntie, in this splendid air. I 
have n’t eaten so much in one day for six months, 
and I do n’t know that anything I ever ate tasted 
so good as the food does here.” 

“ I ’m so hungry too,” chimed in Etta, “ and 
there wasn’t one cookie in my basket when I feeled 
for one in the carryall.” 

“Well,” Mary said, putting down a most appe- 
tizing dish of ham and eggs, “tea is ready now, 
whenever you are.” 

Long after Etta, and even David and Mary were 
fast asleep, on that pleasant April evening, Miss 
Westbrooke and Harry sat in the sittingroom, talk- 
ing earnestly, both reluctant to shorten the precious 
time that they could be together. 

Already Mr. Westbrooke’s letters, brief though 
they were, had shown his sister that his heart had 
been opened through his misfortunes to higher 
influences and motives than had moved him in past 
years, and while careful to refrain from any word 
to jar upon Harry’s filial respect, she drew from 
him much comforting assurance of her brother’s 
newly roused reverence for holy things, his atten- 
dance at church, and his entire renunciation of 


THE PICNIC. 


251 


Sunday labor. She could not but hope that these 
outward changes sprang from a vital change within : 
that her brother was a sincere penitent, and had 
found in Christ that peace the world could not 
give him. And Harry, who had kept all his spir- 
itual longings shut in his own heart, drew strength 
and comfort for many future hours of self-commun- 
ion from his aunt’s words. 

The one grief, upon which they could scarcely 
forbear to touch, was the separation that seemed 
inevitable for many years to come. Etta would 
need womanly care for several years longer, and 
the Westbrookes, father and son, would not soon 
be in a. position to make a home for Miss Ellen 
and Etta, even if it was advisable to bring either to 
the city to live. Letters had been, and would be 
frequent and confidential, but letters will not fill 
the longing for face to face conversation, the hun- 
ger to hear loved voices. 

Still it was some comfort to look forward to the 
summer visits, and perhaps to a visit from Aunt 
Ellen in the fall or spring, when she could be re- 
ceived in some pleasant boardinghouse. “For,” 
Harry said, “we are looking out now for a place 
where we need not be at much more expense, 
but will have better food and a pleasanter room. I 


252 


ALMOST A MAN. 


think we scarcely appreciated what a very poor 
cook we have, for we were in that state when it was 
rather a relief to feel victimized in every way. But 
we are going to look more at the sunny side of life 
after this. I am so glad that you approve of my 
plan for coaxing father to go out with me, and do 
not think it will be officious for me to try to get 
him to leave his business sometimes for a day of 
recreation.” 

“ I think it will do him a world of good, Harry,” 
was the reply. “He needs some one to suggest 
to him that his treadmill existence is really not a 
necessity. Let him see that you do not wish him 
to pile up wealth for you and Etta, at the expense 
of his own health, and he will perhaps be persuaded 
to keep up his business upon a more limited scale 
and with less anxiety and toil.” 

Next morning the carryall took all the West- 
brookes to the station, where, with cheerful faces, 
but suspiciously dim eyes, Miss Ellen and Harry 
bade each other farewell, while Etta made no secret 
of her tearful lamentations over “ brother Harry’s ” 
departure, but held up a tear-stained face for a 
good-by kiss, with a message for her dear papa. 


THE RETURN TO BROOKLYN 


253 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE RETURN TO BROOKLYN. 

Miss Westbrooke herself had packed Harry’s 
valise, and he did not open it until he was once 
more in his own room, waiting for his father’s re- 
turn to dinner. It had made his eyes dim, while his 
lips smiled, to see the little stand he had arranged 
still apparently untouched, the flowers hanging their 
heads forlorn and withered, while the Bible was 
evidently carefully replaced after use just where he 
had left it. 

A book-mark similar to his own, with “ Papa ” 
in the same straggling stitches embroidered upon it 
by Etta’s fingers, was in a folded paper in his vest 
pocket, and this Harry placed between the leaves of 
the Bible, sure that his father would be best pleased 
to use it there. Then he opened his valise for the 
slippers Miss Westbrooke had embroidered for her 
brother, and upon the very top lay a white envelope 
directed to him in his aunt Ellen’s familiar hand- 
writing. 

Opening this quickly, a hundred-dollar note 
fluttered to the floor, and a few kind words from 


254 ALMOST A MAN. 

Miss Westbrooke begged his acceptance of this for 
a birthday gift, to be kept for his own private use. 
There was time before dinner to write a few words 
of cordial thanks, and put the letter in the corner 
mail-box ; and soon after his return Harry heard his 
father’s step coming up the stairs. 

He looked tired as he entered the room, but his 
face brightened instantly as he grasped Harry’s 
hand and looked into his happy eyes. 

“Fairhaven must suit Westbrooke blood,” he said 
cheerily; “you look better than you have looked 
for weeks. Did you enjoy your visit, my son ?” 

“ Every moment of it ; but I am glad to get 
back too, and quite ready to buckle down to work 
again. But you must admire some specimens of 
needlework I have brought with me.” 

Etta’s efforts in that line having been duly ad- 
mired, with most loving touches and tender eyes, 
the slippers were put aside to be made up, and 
father and son settled down for a good chat, just as 
the dinner-bell rang. 

“No work to-night,” Mr. Westbrooke said, as 
they reentered the room after dinner ; “ I must hear 
all about our baby and your aunt Ellen.” 

Harry gladly gave a most minute description of 
every detail he could recall of the happy, quiet home 


THE RETURN TO BROOKLYN. 255 

he had just left so regretfully. Above all, he dwelt 
upon the improvement in Etta, though he laughed 
as he said, “You would not know the prim little 
lady that you remember languidly walking beside 
Jeannette in the latest Paris fashion for little girls. 
Etta wears good heavy-soled boots and calico dress- 
es, with a sunbonnet over all her curls, and she runs 
and jumps like a squirrel, laughs gayly, and her 
voice is as strong and clear as a child’s voice ought 
to be. She is plump and rosy, and full of play. I 
never saw any one so changed. And Aunt Ellen 
looks stronger and brighter in her own heme than 
she did here. I hope you will go up there soon 
and see them. They are very anxious to have you 
do so.” 1 

“ I will try during the summer, and we must 
manage a longer vacation for you. Did you see 
any of the cousins ? I believe there are some still 
living at Fairhaven.” 

“I saw no one but the inmates of the house. 
Eita was disposed to think our picnic was not quite 
in order without 'folks but Aunt Ellen thought, 
very truly, that, as my visit was so short, I would 
rather be with her and Etta only.” 

Then Harry repeated most of his conversation 
with his aunt regarding her resources, and received 


256 


ALMOST A MAN. 


his father’s warm assurance that he had spoken 
exactly as he would have dictated in the matter. 
“ Business is very good, Harry,” he said. “ We 
have only to attend to it, to prosper. You will 
have your father’s disastrous experience to teach 
you one good lesson, my son. Keep clear of tempt- 
ing speculations, and trust the slow penny rather 
than the quick dollar. While I held fast to my 
business, carefully watching its favorable opportu- 
nities, risking only what was necessary, owing no 
man, I prospered. When I took up schemes that 
promised speedy returns of enormous profit upon 
the sums invested, I was led on and on, till I lost 
the hard-earned wealth of fifty years’ toil in a few 
short months. Remember the warning, Harry.” 

“ I will, sir.” 

“ And remember also that I was not a faithful 
steward. I counted my wealth as my own, as 
gained by my own exertions, and not as a gift from 
God, for the use of which he would hold me to 
account. I used it for my own purposes, not his.” 

“You were always generous, father.” 

“To my own wife and children. But if I gave 
largely to charity, it was not in Christ’s name, not 
for his sake, but simply to maintain a good reputa- 
tion and make an ostentatious display of my riches. 


THE RETURN TO BROOKLYN. 


2 57 


Just so far as you have means, Harry, remember 
that ‘God loveth a cheerful giver,’ and use your 
wealth in his name for the best charities, not for 
loudly-praised public shows of generosity. I am an 
old man, my son. I cannot hope to see you enjoy 
the prosperty for which we are laying the founda- 
tion, but you will not forget such counsel as our 
Heavenly Father spares me to give you.” 

Harry could only reply by a mute pressure of 
the hand his father was holding, fearing to trust his 
voice to speak. 

Presently Mr. Westbrooke began to explain 
what would be the new duties of the young clerk 
and future partner, under his own orders and super- 
vision. 

“I wish you to become thoroughly acquainted 
with every detail of my own work, Harry,” he said, 
“ to go out with me when I am on business errands, 
to understand as fully as I do myself all the trans- 
actions of the house, to know the duties of every 
employe; in short, to fit yourself to eventually step 
into my place when — ” and meeting his son’s troub- 
led eyes, the old merchant changed the words upon 
his lips, and added, “when I go to Fairhaven to be 
nursed by Ellen and Etta through a tranquil old 
age of quiet happiness.” 


Almost a Man. 


33 


2 5 S 


ALMOST A MAN. 


‘•I think,” said Harry, smiling, “that I shall 
never devote myself as persistently as you have 
done to business, under those circumstances. The 
attractions to tempt me to frequent vacations spent 
at Fairhaven will be too strong to be always re- 
sisted.” 

“ I would not have you the drudge that I have 
been,” was the reply. “ I can say truly that I never 
enjoyed my riches excepting in the knowledge that 
your mother had every luxury for herself and her 
children. I had become so accustomed to giving, 
not only all my time, but all my thoughts to money- 
making, that even in the gayest company my mind 
was over my ledger, and I soon gave up society. I 
entered far too late in life to find pleasure there. 
You must not make that mistake, my son. Make 
friends and keep them, not among the fashionable 
sons of rich men, but with those of worth and integ- 
rity. Let society with you represent something 
better than gay dresses and dancing.” 

“ Wiley tells me they are very desirous of my 
again joining the Debating Club, father. But it 
will take me away every Thursday evening. There 
are some fine scholars there, and I feel quite com- 
plimented at their assurance that they miss me.” 

“You had better go, my boy. It will be an 


THE RETURN TO BROOKLYN 


259 


agreeable change from your work. And, by the 
way, we are to go back to Mrs. Dalton’s on Mon- 
day." 

“ Mrs. Dalton’s ! Can — " 

“Can we afford it? Not exactly as we were 
placed before, but she offers me a second story 
back room, large and well-furnished, with a bed- 
room adjoining, for little more than it costs us 
here, if we count car-fares and ferriage. You see I 
am learning to take the pennies into my calcula- 
tions. We shall* meet only refined people at her 
table, and need not make friends with any we do 
not like. I am convinced that the discomforts and 
wretched cooking we get here are injuring your 
health and mine, and we had better save in some 
other way than in our board." 

“ I am very glad we are going back,” said Harry. 

“You have borne your share of the disagreeable 
part of our lives bravely, Harry, but I hope the 
last winter has ended the worst of our troubles. I 
begin to see my way clear once more." 

Mr. Westbrooke then explained to Harry, more 
minutely than he had done before, the causes of 
his difficulties, the entanglements so occasioned, 
and his reasons for thinking brighter prospects 
were before them. He roused all the boy’s manli- 


26 o 


ALMOST A MAN. 


ness by this confidence, and could scarcely have 
found a surer method of engaging the whole inter- 
est of his future young partner. The prospect of 
wealth, of business importance, was entirely sec- 
ondary in Harry’s heart to the prospect of being 
truly his father’s partner , a full sharer in his work 
and plans, helping him in every possible way, and 
bringing his youthful strength, hope, and energy, 
to carry out schemes suggested by Mr. West- 
brooke’s long experience. He entered warmly into 
all that was placed before him for his work for the 
next few days, proving by his intelligent questions 
and remarks that he would be a true help and part- 
ner when the proper time came. 

The mantel-clock chiming twelve found the two 
still talking, but roused Mr. Westbrooke to the rec- 
ollection of Harry’s long journey, and his desire to 
enter at once upon his new duties in the morning. 

“ You must not sit up any longer,” he said, “but 
I should like to have you read your chapter in the 
Bible aloud before you retire. And to-morrow I 
will introduce you to the corner of my office I have 
fitted up with a new desk and chair for you.” 

“ I am very impatient to see them and to begin 
my work there,” said Harry. “ Where shall I read 
father?” 


THE RETURN TO BROOKLYN 


261 


“ Read the sixth chapter of St. John, Harry. It 
was my fathers favorite chapter, the one he read 
most frequently at family worship. Does Ellen 
keep up the old custom still ?” 

“Yes, sir. She reads a chapter to the family 
every morning before breakfast, and they all kneel 
in prayer, closing always with the Lord’s Prayer. 
Even Etta says it in her sweet, baby voice.” 

“ Shall we commence our day so after this, Har- 
ry, instead of reading and praying alone ? Not that 
I would deprive you of your private devotions, but 
would like to unite with you once a day in reading 
and prayer.” 

So gladly, so gratefully did Harry acquiesce in 
this desire, that Mr. Westbrooke understood at last 
how the boy had craved such companionship. 

Very reverently, after this, the chapter was read, 
Harry’s voice faltering more than once, although 
he kept on steady to the end. And the verse he 
held fast in his memory, to think over while he 
waited for sleep to close his senses, was, “ Labor 
not for the meat which perisheth, but for that meat 
which endureth unto everlasting life, which the Son 
of man shall give unto you.” 


262 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

LEFT IN CHARGE. 

Harry had expected — he could scarcely .have 
told for what reason — that Mr. Poulson would re- 
sent his removal from his supervision, and his being 
placed, in a certain sense, above him in the count- 
ingroom. Heretofore there had never been a clerk 
admitted to a share in the private office where Mr. 
Westbrooke’s own desk stood, although Mr. Poul- 
son’s position as confidential clerk brought him 
there for hours at a time very frequently. But he 
also had an office to himself, separated by a parti- 
tion from the long countingroom where the other 
clerks worked in company. Only those who were 
intrusted for a time to the old man’s care and tui- 
tion, as Harry had been, ever shared Mr. Poulson’s 
desk. 

It was rather nervously, therefore, that Harry, 
lingering a moment after his father passed into his 
own office, said “Good-morning” to his stern task- 
master. 

To his surprise the old clerk, with a merry 
twinkle in his eye, stretched out his hand, saying, 


LEFT IN CHARGE. 


263 


“ Let me be the first to congratulate you upon your 
promotion, Mr. Harry. You thought me an old 
tyrant, did you ?” 

Seeing his father had betrayed him, Harry said 
frankly, “ I thought I was a most unpromising 
specimen of a clerk.” 

“ Not a bit of it, my boy, not a bit of it. You’re 
a perfect chip of the old block, and have as clear a 
head as I ever saw on young shoulders. I ’m very 
glad you are coming to take some of the care from 
your father, and I shall be proud to take your or- 
ders, sir, when our sign reads : ‘ Westbrooke & 
Son.’ ” 

“ Thank you,” Harry said, much gratified. “ I 
shall not be afraid of a scolding now, if I find I 
must ask you to help me sometimes.” 

“I don’t know about that,” was the dry reply. 
“ If I think you want a scolding, I shall consider it 
my duty to give it to you.” 

Harry laughed at this threat, and went to his 
father’s office. The new desk was very attractive, 
placed under a window newly curtained, and with a 
soft white mat under it, and a new waste-paper bas- 
ket beside the large, cushioned chair. All the ap- 
pointments — inkstand, gold pen, pen-wiper, letter- 
book, and other stationery — were shining in new 


264 


ALMOST A MAN. 


brightness, and very happily the young clerk took 
possession. He was fully aware that he was not to 
occupy the position that had once filled his imagi- 
nation, that of an ornamental partner, sharing the 
profits of the firm without any of the labor, but 
must seriously give all his business hours to steady 
work, studying his routine of duty as faithfully as 
he had ever studied his most attractive school 
tasks. 

With the earnest hope that his father might live 
for many years still, he had realized very fully in 
the past few months that Mr. Westbrooke’s age 
required him to take many more hours of relaxa- 
tion than he had ever been in the habit of taking, 
while, at the same time, such rest would be of little 
benefit to him unless he could feel that he left his 
business in intelligent care. With this motive ever 
before him, Harry was strictly attentive to every 
explanation given to him, conscientiously careful in 
the performance of every duty intrusted to him. 
Errors he sometimes made, even serious ones ; but 
they were the errors of inexperience, not of negli- 
gence, and each one was a lesson impressed upon 
his mind with the sharpness of regret or self-re- 
proach. 

Old merchants, who had known Mr. West- 


LEFT IN CHARGE . 


265 


brooke for years, began to compliment him upon 
his renewed youth, as his face brightened and his 
form was carried more erectly, with some of the 
burden of care so gently lifted from his mind. 
And Harry found himself in a new circle of friends 
as these same merchants, urging his father to more 
social intercourse, invited his son to join their par- 
ties. Other men but little older than Harry, who 
had before been disposed to look with half-envious 
contempt upon him as a useless young member of 
fashionable society, sought his friendship, and gave 
him many useful hints from their own somewhat 
longer business experience. And wiseacres shook 
their heads solemnly and wondered if Mr. West- 
brooke really intended to again risk the business 
that was reviving so rapidly, by giving that young- 
ster a full partnership in the concern. Some of 
Harry’s old follies and extravagances bore most 
heavily upon such discussions, but as a rule he was 
winning more approbation than blame. 

“ A dignified little chap,” one grayheaded mer- 
chant of wealth and experience, who had watched 
Harry with great interest, said, half-smiling. “ I 
called in to see Westbrooke yesterday about some 
supplies for the fall, and the youngster, while he 
was perfectly respectful, plainly showed that he was 
34 


Almost a Man. 


266 


ALMOST A MAN. 


master in the office during his father’s absence. I 
did not hesitate, after five minutes’ conversation, to 
transact the entire business with him, arid am fully 
satisfied that it will meet with proper attention.” 

“ H’m !” was the comment of the gentleman 
addressed ; “I do n’t approve of giving too much 
authority to boys, especially boys who have been 
brought up to consider fast horses and champagne 
suppers necessities of life. I ’ve heard some pretty 
rough stories about this same young Westbrooke, 
spending half the night gambling and making 
money fly like chaff.” 

“Yes, yes. I’ve heard them too; but the boy 
was brought up to believe his father’s wealth almost 
unlimited, and could scarcely be expected to deny 
himself the pleasures and temptations of other lads 
of his class. I am glad he has dropped young 
Meredith.” 

“ Or young Meredith has dropped him,” was the 
dry reply. 

“ Either way it is for Westbrooke’s advantage 
to see no more of him. He sails for Europe next 
week. Was to have gone in March, but waited for 
a party. He goes under the care of a private tutor 
whose reputation is none of the best. I do n’t know 
what Raymond is thinking about to allow it.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE. 


267 


“ Raymond’s own sons are fair proofs of the 
attention he pays to youthful morals. It is lamen- 
table to see men not more than twenty-two or three 
so thoroughly at home in expensive dissipation of 
every kind as they are. The city is a bad school 
for youngsters with rich fathers, a very bad school.” 

“ You are right And that is what amazes me 
about Harry Westbrooke. His father has never 
been so poor that the lad could not have kept up 
his old pursuits and connections, and yet he has 
dropped them all. There was something more than 
his father’s failure to spur him on.” 

Something more ! There was indeed, although 
the old merchant did not know that strong motive 
power sustaining and encouraging the young heart. 
The power of faith had delivered Harry from the 
bondage of the old life, and nursed by constant, 
humble prayer, and sincere seeking for guidance, 
had been his shield and buckler through the many 
temptations in his new life. 

After his introduction to the office, and his en- 
trance upon that confidential intercourse that was 
to pave the way to the future partnership, there was 
never again the wall of reserve between father and 
son that had existed for so many years ; and while 
Harry was stronger and happier for his father’s 


263 


ALMOST A MAN. 


confidence and sympathy, he little appreciated what 
deep happiness the father himself found in this 
companionship with a young heart, loving and ten- 
der and respectful. 

They were like boys together in the half-holi- 
days they secured for relaxation, going to the sea- 
side to spend the hours of a summer day when the 
heat was intense and business dull. They threw 
all care aside for the time, enjoying the trip, the 
fresh, bracing air, the surf-bathing, even the out- 
door shows, the luncheon, and returned tired and 
yet refreshed to their rooms, to talk and laugh over 
their day’s experiences and adventures. 

They were like old men in their counting-room, 
gravely discussing the day’s affairs, the state of the 
market, the accounts and investments, the expe- 
diency of this or that transaction, the various emer- 
gencies constantly arising. And after the office 
was closed and the business of the day over, they 
would often spend long evenings over correspond- 
ence or accounts. 

In society, where they were seldom seen apart, 
they were still in perfect sympathy. And Mr. 
Westbrooke, led by Harry’s fresh, young taste, 
found delight in much modern literature that was 
entirely new to him, consenting readily and often to 


LEFT IN CHARGE. 


269 


put aside business cares for an evening, and settle 
back comfortably in an easy-cushioned chair, to lis- 
ten to Harry as he read aloud, or discussed with 
him the merits of the authors under consideration. 
It was such companionship as is often seen between 
mothers and grown-up daughters, but seldom be- 
tween a father and son, and such as would have 
been scarcely possible but for the peculiar isolation 
of both lives from family ties. 

It was not entirely without hesitation, fully as 
he trusted Harry, that Mr. Westbrooke early in 
August consented to go to Fairhaven to spend a 
fortnight. Harry was to have full charge of the 
business, with Mr. Poulson at hand to advise him 
upon any matter that had not yet come within the 
range of his own experience ; and while he was 
neither nervous nor over-anxious, he was deeply 
conscious of the trust reposed in him, the responsi- 
bility resting upon his young shoulders. 

But there was no shadow of care upon his 
bright young face as he bustled about the room, 
with the early August morning sunshine streaming 
in at the windows, while he packed his father’s va- 
lise, shook out his duster, brushed his hat, and put 
his cane in reach. 

“ Here are your new slippers,” he said, “ fortu- 


270 


ALMOST A MAN. 


nately broken in to perfect comfort. We must put 
those in, that Aunt Ellen may see we appreciate 
her gifts ; and your linen is all in splendid order. 
Nobody would believe how I have had to manage 
with the washerwoman. She does n’t dare put any 
more bone buttons as big as a silver quarter of a 
dollar upon our wristbands. Your cuffs and collars 
are all in' this paper box, so that they wont be 
crushed. And your best suit is folded as if I had 
been apprenticed to a tailor — oh, you need n’t laugh 
at me till you can find one crease in it — and you 
will need a microscope for that. I left Etta’s book- 
mark in your Bible. And the presents are all in 
this box; it just fits in here as if the space was 
made for it. I ordered a carriage last night.” 

“ You extravagant young monkey !” 

“Well, you see, a journey is quite an event in 
your life, and I propose to start you off in style, 
Pullman car and every luxury attainable. I hope 
you appreciate the fact that your duster is a new 
one, and your hatbox in the latest fashion.” 

“ I begin to think you are glad to be rid of me,” 
said Mr. Westbrooke, half sadly. 

“ So I am, sir, for two weeks. After that, if you 
remain, you may expect to see another valise in the 
hand of your dutiful son, at Fairhaven.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE. 


271 


“We wont send you back again ; but Poulson 
will be reduced to a pitiable state at such an over- 
throw of all precedent. I think he has expected to 
see the walls fall in whenever we went off together 
for a day. But for both to go for a longer time 
would quite overcome the old man. Here comes 
the carriage. Are you going to the depot ?” 

“ Most assuredly. I should quite expect you to 
change your mind at the last moment, and walk 
into the office, valise, duster, and all, if I do not see 
you fairly started.” 

But no such suggestion was carried out, Mr. 
Westbrooke starting full of almost boyish enthusi- 
asm to visit his old home, his sister, and the wee 
darling he missed more than any one guessed. For 
two days all went on well in the office, and then, 
entering there one morning, Harry was followed 
by Mr. Poulson. Upon the old clerk’s face was a 
deep, sorrowful cloud, and his voice was very low as 
he said, “We’ve traced up that forged check, Mr. 
Harry.” 

In a moment Harry’s face also was shadowed. 
“ Well ?” he said quietly. 

“Just as we feared, sir.” 

“ Wright ?” 

“Yes. Clear as daylight. I was quite sure he 


272 


ALMOST A MAN. 


was going wrong. It stands to reason a man in his 
position, with his salary, cannot keep up with the 
company he associates with unless he has some pri- 
vate means.” 

“ What have you done ?” 

“ Nothing as yet. I thought you might wish to 
send for Mr. Westbrooke.” 

“ Mr. Westbrooke, anticipating this very matter, 
has left it entirely to me. Tell me what you have 
learned.” 

“I had him watched, as you directed, and the 
notes have been traced to him directly. The num- 
bers correspond with the bank-list. Probably he 
paid some large sum before we discovered the for- 
gery. I waited for you to come down before order- 
ing his arrest.” 

“ Right. Send him here.” 

“To you alone ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“But — pardon me, Mr. Harry. He is a man, 
you know, older than you are by some six or seven 
years at least, and — we know he is a criminal — is it 
quite safe ?” 

“ I think so. You are within call, you know.” 

Something in the young face, very pale and 
very sad, drove back any further remonstrance upon 


LEFT IN CHARGE. 


273 


the old clerk’s lips, and he left the office, while 
Harry, covering his eyes for a moment, prayed 
silently that he might meet the trying interview as 
a Christian man, not governed by any personal 
resentment or severity. 

The young man, who presently entered, evi- 
dently expected the words of condemnation that he 
deserved, for his face was deadly pale, although 
there was a bravado in his air ill concealing his 
nervous terror. “You sent for me,” he said, with 
an insolence that proved he expected to exert all 
the influence of his superior age against his young 
employer. 

“ I sent for you, Wright, to tell you that your 
services would be needed here no longer, and that, 
in justice to others, we must decline giving you any 
recommendation.” 

“Is that all ?” with a deep breath of relief. 

“All; unless,” and Harry’s face was almost 
womanly in its pleading expression, “ you have any- 
thing to say to me.” 

“I — I don’t understand you,” stammered the 
young man, feeling all desire to be insolent fast 
deserting him. 

“ I think you do,” was the quiet reply. “ I 
think you understand that we have made discover- 
35 


Almost a Man. 


274 


ALMOST A MAN. 


ies that force us to take a painful step, that in strict 
justice would compel us to put the future control of 
your affairs into the hands of the law. It may be 
that I make a mistake now, for I am young, and my 
father is not here to advise me. But not very long 
ago I struggled with the same temptations that are 
besetting you. I too learned the fascinations of 
gambling. I too tried to keep up with the extrava- 
gances of men of wealth. My temptation was not 
so great as yours, for I had control of the money to 
support my expenses. But, had I been in your 
position, I might have been led to your crime. Shall 
I tell you what saved me ?” 

There was no reply. Thoroughly subdued by 
the grave, pitying voice, the humility of the confes- 
sion from one who held him so completely in his 
power, the guilty young clerk had turned his face 
to the wall, hiding it in his folded arms. 

“ I know nothing of your private life,” Harry 
continued, after waiting a moment for an answer, 
that could not be spoken : “ you may stand alone, 
exposed doubly to all temptation, or you may have 
relatives who would feel any disgrace to you 
deeply.” 

“It would kill my mother,” came in muffled 
tones from the hidden lips. 


LEFT IN CHARGE. 


2 75 


“ Does she know anything ?” 

No answer. Presently Harry crossed the room, 
and placing his hand on the young clerk’s shoulder, 
said, “ Will you not forget for a moment that I am 
but a boy, your employer’s son, and feel that I am 
your friend, willing and ready to help you ?” 

The appeal was irresistible. Turning his white 
haggard face to the one that was full of the most 
earnest compassion, Davis Wright poured forth the 
history of his gradual descent from rectitude. It 
was a story only too common, of an introduction to 
society where money was a necessity to support ex- 
travagance, high play, late suppers, theatres, parties^ 
and those well-gilded vices that seem so fascinating 
under the glamour of fashion. Weak, and possess- 
ing much beauty of face, with some accomplish- 
ments, Davis Wright had been led on and on, till 
his debts were of such magnitude that his creditors 
threatened to expose him to Mr. Westbrooke. 

“ It was when I was just desperate,” he said, 
“ that Mr. Westbrooke called me in here one morn- 
ing to take some checks to the bank. Just as he 
was giving me directions, Mr. Morrison crossed Mr. 
Poulson’s office, and Mr. Westbrooke stepped out 
to meet him. There were some blank checks on 
the desk, and I slipped one into the bundle in my 


276 


ALMOST A MAN. 


hand. It was easy to say it was taken up in mis- 
take if it was missed. But it was not. At the 
bank they gave me the month’s returns, with all the 
checks for Mr. Westbrooke. When I came back, 
your father was out, and I left the bank-book and 
checks upon the desk, except one check I kept to 
copy. It was my first attempt at forgery, and I sat 
up all night working upon it. It seems I failed, if 
it has been already detected.” 

“ It was detected at once, but as you were in the 
habit of transacting so much of the bank business, 
the notes given to you had their numbers taken, 
and the list and check were sent to the office. You 
understand that it became our duty at once to prove 
the offence. But we were very loath to accuse you, 
Davis. My father could scarcely believe you 
guilty.” 

“ It was my first offence. If you will overlook 
it—” 

“We cannot keep you here, Davis, in justice to 
those who have served us honestly.” 

“ I must starve, then. No one will trust me if 
I leave here without recommendation.” 

“ Have you no relative, no friend, to whom you 
could go, confessing your fault ?” 

“No one,” was the reply. “You might as well 


LEFT IN CHARGE. 


2 77 


hand me over to the police as to turn me out. 
Oh !” and the white lips quivered like a child’s, 
“ why did I ever give way to my first temptation to 
dishonesty ?” 

“ I think it was because you did not ask for help 
where alone it could be given, Davis. I know how 
strong temptation is, unless we resist it by a strong- 
er power. You know what that is ?” 

Only a shivering moan for answer. 

“ Only prayer can save us, Davis. Only One 
can help us, and we must ask him for that help. 
Never does he turn a deaf ear. Did you try that 
safeguard, Davis ?” 

“ No ; I know nothing about prayer.” 

“ Prayer saved me, Davis, and it will save you, 
if you seek its help.” 

And then, forgetting all else in his earnest de- 
sire to win this soul from the path of sin it had 
trodden so far, Harry spoke with forcible but sim- 
ple words, with the eloquence born of sincere con- 
viction, and tried to move the young clerk to a true 
penitence for his fault, a true appreciation of his 
frightful danger, not in this world only, but in that 
future he was so recklessly perilling, and urged him 
to flee to the Lord Jesus Christ for salvation. 

Poulson, listening nervously, heard only low 


2 7 8 


ALMOST A MAN. 


murmurs for more than an hour. Then Harry 
came out. “You will give Wright one of the 
Western agencies for the next three months,” he 
said gravely, “ with no money power.” 

Poulson looked doubtful, but made no comment. 

“ It will not do to throw further temptation in 
his way by turning him adrift,” said Harry quietly. 
“ We can remove him from the influences that are 
now about him in the way I propose, and the salary 
will keep him from any want, although less than he 
has had. If he does well, we -may give him a better 
place in the same line. Get him off as soon as you 
can.” 

“ I will, sir. How about the money he drew ?” 

“All gone but a few dollars. It was a moun- 
tain of debt that drove him to crime. I think he is 
thoroughly penitent, and in time will replace the 
amount. Poulson,” with a coaxing hand on the old 
man’s arm, “ do n’t be hard on him.” 

And Poulson, with a very suspicious moisture 
on his eyelashes, and a great parade of blowing his 
nose, answered, “ I ’ll be as gentle as if he was a 
week-old baby, Mr. Harry, and — ” with sudden 
fierceness, “ if he is a scamp again after such treat- 
ment I ’ll take the law into my own hands next 
time.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE. 


279 

“ I hope there will be no ‘ next time/ ” was the 
reply. 

Mr. Westbrooke himself, when on his return 
the whole matter was laid before him, was inclined 
to think Harry had carried forgiveness a little too 
far, but made no proposals to recall the new agent. 
Years later, for we shall hear no more of Davis 
Wright in this volume, when that young man re- 
turned to New York, holding an honorable posi- 
tion, and gratefully acknowledged his obligations to 
Harry Westbrooke, that man, then holding his fa- 
ther’s position in the business-world, felt that no 
business prosperity could ever give him the deep 
abiding joy he felt as with his hand held in a firm 
clasp, he heard Davis Wright say, “ You saved me 
when I was hastening to destruction, and, boy as 
you were, led me into the way of salvation I hum- 
bly hope my feet are treading. My mother’s pray- 
ers have ever your name in them, and she knows 
that she owes her joy that I am a Christian man 
to-day, to the lad who had the power to crush me, 
or to lift me, as he did, back to self-respect and a 
life of integrity.” 


2 So 


ALMOST A MAN. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

QUITE A MAN. 

“ Dear Ellen : 

“ I think we must coax you away from Fairhaven 
for a few days, to help us to celebrate Harry’s com- 
ing of age appropriately. I am certain that the 
pleasures of the day will not be complete unless you 
are here, with Etta, to offer your congratulations to 
your nephew upon his attaining his majority and 
entering the firm of Westbrooke & Son. Send 
me word by what train to expect you, and I will 
meet you. Harry knows nothing of this letter, so 
your coming will be be a real surprise. 

“HENRY.” 

“Are we going, Auntie,” said Etta, when she 
heard the contents of the letter. 

“ Not if you had rather stay here,” was the mis- 
chievous answer. 

“ Oh, I would n’t ! I would n’t !” 

“ Then I think we will go !” 

Packing and preparing was merry work, and on 
a bright Thursday morning the two travellers took 
a train from Fairhaven, that reached New York at 


QUITE A MAN. 


281 


five o’clock. Miss Westbrooke in the last three 
years had received frequent visits from both her 
brother and her nephew, and knew what a great 
change their constant companionship had made in 
Mr. Westbrooke. But she was not prepared for 
the almost boyish glee of- the old merchant, as he 
led the way from the carriage to the room that had 
been made ready for his visitors. 

“ There !” he said, rubbing his hands, “ I managed 
that to a charm. Harry has not the least idea that 
you are expected, and he is shut up in his room 
dressing for our grand reception at the counting- 
room. I have ordered dinner here, and then I will 
smuggle you into our room. You see, I was not 
quite prepared for this evening’s engagement. My 
business friends have known for the last three years 
that I was only waiting until Harry came of age, 
to take him into the firm, and it would make you 
as proud as it makes me, Ellen, if you could hear 
the respect and cordial liking in their words and 
manner when they speak of him. This morning I 
received a note saying that as they supposed my 
engagements for to-morrow were already made, they 
would take pleasure iu offering their congratula- 
tions this evening between eight and nine, at the 
countingroom. So we have had the partitions 
36 . 


Almost a Man. 


282 


ALMOST A MAN. 


taken down, the desks put aside, and the space 
prepared for a reception. You will excuse us, I 
know, and I want Harry to find you on his return, 
when he will not have to hurry away from you. 
To-morrow you must see the new sign put up.” 

Miss Westbrooke, calming Ettq. with some diffi- 
culty, watched the carriage containing father and son 
drive away from the door of the boardinghouse, and 
then went directly to her brother’s private sitting- 
room, from which as of old, two bedrooms opened. 

“ Now, Etta, ring the bell,” she said, “ and we 
will send for a carriage too, and take a short drive.” 

Etta, who was quite unable to stand upon both 
feet at once, but hopped about alternately upon one 
or the other, gave the bell a vigorous jerk, and 
heard the order given for the carriage in great ex- 
citement. 

“ Where are we going, Auntie ?” she asked. 

“ Shopping ! Get your hat and sacque.V 

There was not much time for elaborate prepa- 
ration, but willing hands made quick work. They 
quickly despatched their shopping, and as the car- 
riage with Harry and his father drove again to the 
door, Etta, half-choking with fun popped into one 
bedroom, while Miss Ellen scarcely less excited 
vanished in the doorway of the other. 


QUITE A MAE 


283 


The sittingroom door opened, and Harry cried : 
“ The fairies have been here ! This must be your 
work, father !” 

“ I assure you I had no hand in it !” 

It did look like fairy work. The gas burners 
were all brilliantly lighted, and upoit-the lace cur- 
tains and over the picture frames hung wreaths of 
green leaves. The large .table was drawn into the 
centre of the room, and upon its snowy cloth were 
vases of exquisite flowers, a large birthday cake, 
pyramids of ice cream, amber-colored jellies, and 
other dainties, while around one plate were placed 
some tasteful gifts. 

“ Who could have done this ?” Harry cried, and 
was answered by a smothered little giggle from his 
own room, that caused him, quite unmindful of his 
new dignities, to dart in there and capture Etta. 

“You darling! You precious pet!” he cried, 
smothering her with kisses, and disarranging her 
white dress and blue ribbons most wofully, “where 
is Aunt Ellen ?” 

“ Not far away, as you might guess,” said Mr. 
Westbrooke leading his sister forward, “ I think 
that the fairies were loving hearts and quick fingers, 
my son !” 

“ Is n’t it pretty ?” cried Etta, dancing round the 


23 4 


ALMOST A MAN. 


table, “ and was n’t it fun to see Auntie hurrying 
the shop-boys around ? They never could be here 
in time, they said, but she brought home lots of 
things in the carriage, and all the rest did come ! 
I helped, brother Harry !” 

“ I know you did, blue eyes ! Thank you both ! 
Now, Aunt Ellen, you must admire my present.” 

As he spoke he placed in his aunt’s hands a 
handsome morocco case, which, being opened, was 
found to contain a gold watch, with chain and seal, 
all of the most beautiful workmanship, and solid 
heavy gold. Upon the watch Harry’s monogram,, 
glistening in tiny diamonds, was displayed. 

• “A present,” said Mr. Westbrooke, “of which 
I am as proud as Harry can be, for it is given to 
my son as a token of esteem, by my old business 
friends and customers of many years’ standing. 
Our reception was but a short one, Ellen, but the 
men who grasped Harry’s hand to-night, and wel- 
comed him as one of their future associates in busi- 
ness, were men whom it is an honor to know, who 
will be stanch to him, as they were to me in my 
day of trouble. We wiped out our last obligation 
on the old score some days ago, Ellen, and ‘ West- 
brooke & Son’ can now look the world fairly in the 
face, owing no man a dollar.” 




ft 

*%i 

si “ 

; ; ’ 








QUITE A MAN. 


285 


“I think,” said Etta gravely, after Miss Ellen 
had given her nephew a cordial embrace, that his 
new manhood accepted as lovingly as ever his old 
boyhood had done, “ I see that ice-cream is all melt- 
ing away!” 

“To prevent such a catastrophe,” said Harry 
gravely, “ allow me to escort you to a seat.” 

He stooped his tall, manly figure till Etta could 
put her little hand upon his arm, and led her most 
ceremoniously to the pretty table. The great birth- 
day cake was cut, the cream handed round, and 
Mr. Westbrooke rose to propose Harry’s health in 
glasses of pure cold water. His short speech was 
made in rather a broken voice, and Harry respond- 
ed with most exaggerated bows and flourishes, to 
Etta’s great delight. Then there was a great 
game of romps over a dish of cracking bonbons, 
and the presents from Fairhaven were duly ad- 
mired. 

Etta was very proud of a set of handkerchiefs 
she had hemmed herself, with Harry’s initial very 
neatly worked in the corners. Mary had sent a 
most gorgeous worsted-work pincushion, with H. 
W. upon it, not in a diamond monogram, but in shi- 
ning pin heads. David, in a note that it was harder 
toil to him to write than any full day’s farm-work 


2 % 


ALMOST A MAN. 


he had ever undertaken, “ hoped Mr. Harry would 
accept a flower he had been coaxing to perfection 
for three months, for this happy day said flower 
being a superb rosebush in full bloom. Aunt El- 
len’s gift was a dainty scarfpin, set in a very hand- 
some scarf, and Harry admired everything to Etta’s 
full satisfaction. 

All the Fairhaven news had to be told, with in- 
quiries for relatives and neighbors who had become 
friends during the summer visits to the farm, and 
then the prospects of the new firm came under dis- 
cussion. 

“We shall not be rich for many years,” Mr. 
Westbrooke said, “but we are sailing in very fair 
waters, and when I retire, I think I can take suffi- 
cient income from the business for all my wants 
without crippling Harry.” 

“ I hope it will be long before you retire,” said 
his son, respectfully and lovingly. “ If you do no 
more than look in for an hour each day, it will give 
a dignity to the firm I am afraid it would sorely 
miss if I were the sole Westbrooke there. Aunt 
Ellen, when will you come and keep house for us ?” 

Miss Westbrooke smiled, saying, “ I think I 
shall leave that position open for a very much 
younger applicant, Mr. Westbrooke. There are 


QUITE A MAN. 


287 


occasional birds from New York flying about Fair- 
haven, and one of them whispered a little story to 
me.” 

Harry colored and laughed, but Etta cried, “ Oh 
please tell the story, Auntie.” 

“ Once upon a time,” said Miss Ellen, “ there 
was a young lad, almost a man, to whom there 
came some misfortunes. He had a great many 
friends who were very glad to see him while he was 
prosperous, but who were but coldly civil or actu- 
ally rude to him when troubles came. But one 
friend, a friend governed by Christian principles, 
never asked if this young lad was rich or poor, but 
kept up all his old cordiality.” 

“ What was his name, Auntie ?” 

“ His name was Frank Wiley.” 

“Why, that is the gentleman who came to Fair- 
haven last summer with brother Harry, and asked 
me if I caught sunbeams in my curls.” 

“The very same! This same Frank Wiley 
has a sister, too, Etta, not a little girl like you, but 
a sweet young lady of eighteen, with blue eyes and 
brown hair.” 

“ Like the picture in brother Harry’s locket ?” 

“ O dear, dear ! I think you are telling the 
story, Etta,” said Mr. Westbrooke. “ But our 


ALMOST A MAN. 


4 

288 

young people are going to wait a year or two, El- 
len, before your little romance ends as all romances 
do, in a wedding. They are young yet, although 
our Harry will be a man to-morrow.” 

“ And I think,” said Miss Ellen, “ that if Etta 
does not shut up her eyes pretty soon, they will be 
too sleepy to read that new sign we are to see put 
up over the old store.” 

Mr. Westbrooke rose at this hint, and drawing 
forward a little stand, opened the Book that always 
rested there. The others grouped around him 
while he read a chapter, and knelt as he offered a 
fervent prayer, thanking his heavenly Father that 
they were all permitted to unite in his worship, and 
for the many blessings of that happy hour. 

Then, with loving embraces, the little party 
separated for the night. But long after Etta was 
sound asleep the others lay awake thinking with 
fervent thanksgiving of the happiness that had fol- 
lowed their sorrows and anxieties, the bright pros- 
pects that were opening before the feet of the 
young pilgrim who had so nobly taken up his cross 
when almost a man. 











































































































































































































